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In  Memory  of 
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PATIENCE  SPARHAWK 


PATIENCE  SPARHAWK 

AND    HER  TIMES 


BY 

GERTRUDE  ATHERTON 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  WHIRL  ASUNDER,"  "THE  DOOMSWOMAN," 
"BEFORE  THE  GRINGO  CAME,"  ETC. 


JOHN   LANE:    THE   BODLEY  HEAD 

LONDON  AND  NEW  YORK 

1897 


Copyright,  1895, 
BY  GERTRUDE  ATHERTON. 

Copyright,  1897, 
BY    JOHN    LANE. 

All  rights  reserved. 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


TO 


M.  PAUL  BOURGET, 

Who  alone,  of  all  foreigners,  has  detected,  in  its  full  significance,  that 
the  motive  power,  the  cohering  force,  the  ultimate  religion  of  that 
strange  composite  known  as  "  The  American,"  is  Individual  Will. 
Leaving  the  ultra-religious  element  out  of  the  question,  the  high, 
the  low,  the  rich,  the  poor,  the  man,  the  woman  of  this  section  of 
the  Western  world,  each,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  believes  in, 
relies  on  himself  primarily.  In  the  higher  civilisation  this  amounts 
to  intellectual  anarchy,  and  its  tendency  is  to  make  Americans,  or, 
more  exactly,  United  Statesians,  a  New  Race  in  a  sense  far  more 
portentous  than  in  any  which  has  yet  been  recognised.  As  M.  Bourget 
prophesies,  destruction,  chaos,  may  eventuate.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  final  result  may  be  a  race  of  harder  fibre  and  larger  faculties  than 
any  in  the  history  of  civilisation.  That  this  extraordinary  self-depend- 
ence and  independence  of  certain  traditions  that  govern  older  nations 
make  the  quintessential  part  of  the  women  as  of  the  men  of  this  race 
I  have  endeavoured  to  illustrate  in  the  following  pages. 

G.  A. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 


BOOK    I 
I 

"  OH,  git  up  !  Git  up  !  Did  you  ever  see  such  an  old 
slug  ?  Billy  !  Will  you  git  up  ?  " 

"What's  the  use  of  talking  to  him?"  drawled  a 
soft,  inactive  voice.  "You  know  he  never  goes  one 
bit  faster.  What's  the  difference  anyhow?" 

"Difference  is  my  mother  wants  these  groceries  for 
supper.  We  're  all  out  of  sugar  'n  flour  'n  beans,  and 
the  men 's  got  to  eat." 

"Well, as  long  as  he  won't  go,  just  be  comfortable 
and  don't  bother." 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  as  easy-going  as  you  are,  Rosita, 
but  I  can't :  I  suppose  it 's  because  I  'm  not  Spanish. 
Guess  I  've  got  some  Yankee  in  me,  if  I  am  a  Cali- 
fornian."  The  little  girl  leaned  over  the  dash-board  of 
the  rickety  buggy,  thumping  with  her  whip-stump  the 
back  of  the  aged  nag.  Billy  was  blind,  uncertain  in 
the  knees,  and  as  languid  as  any  cabaliero  that  once 
had  sighed  at  dona's  feet  in  these  dim  pine  woods. 
As  far  back  as  Patience  could  remember  he  had  never 
broken  his  record,  and  his  record  was  two  miles  an 
hour.  In  a  few  moments  she  set  the  whip  in  the  socket 
with  an  irritable  thump,  wound  the  reins  about  it,  and 
sat  down  on  the  floor  beside  her  companion.  For 


4       Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

some  reason  best  known  to  themselves,  the  girls  pre- 
ferred this  method  of  disposition  when  Billy  led  the 
wa)r,  —  perhaps  because  he  had  an  errant  fondness  for 
the  roughest  spots  of  the  rough  road,  making  the  high 
seat  as  uneasy  and  precarious  as  thrones  are  still ;  per- 
haps because  Patience  rebelled  at  habit,  and  in  all  her 
divagations  was  blindly  followed  by  her  Spanish  friend. 

Billy  ambled  up  and  down  the  steep  roads  of  the 
fragrant  pine  woods  on  the  hills  behind  Monterey,  and 
the  girls  gave  him  no  further  heed.  Patience's  long 
plait  having  been  shaken  loose  in  her  wild  lurches  over 
the  dash-board,  she  swung  about,  dangled  her  legs  out 
of  the  buggy,  and  commanded  Rosita  to  braid  her  hair. 
The  legs  she  kicked  recklessly  against  the  wheel  were 
not  pretty.  They  were  long  and  thin,  clothed  with 
woollen  stockings  darned  and  wrinkled,  and  angled  off 
with  copper-toed  boots.  She  wore  a  frock  of  faded 
gingham,  and  chewed  the  strings  of  a  sunbonnet. 

"  Don't  pull  so,  and  do  hurry,"  she  exclaimed  as  the 
Spanish  girl's  deft  slow  fingers  moved  in  and  out  of  the 
scanty  wisps. 

"  I  'm  not  pulling,  Patita,  dear,  and  you  know  I  can't 
hurry.  And  I  'm  just  thinking  that  your  hair  is  the 
colour  of  ashes." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Patience,  gloomily,  "  but  maybe 
it'll  be  yellow  when  I  grow  up.  Do  you  remember 
Polly  Collins?  When  she  graduated  she  had  hair  the 
colour  of  a  wharf  rat,  and  when  she  came  back  from 
San  Francisco  the  next  year  it  was  as  yellow  as  the  hills 
in  summer." 

"I  don't  care  for  yellow  hair,"  and  Rosita  moved 
her  dark  head  with  the  slow  rotary  motion  which  was 
hers  by  divine  right. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times       5 

"  Oh,  you  're  pretty,"  said  Patience,  sarcastically. 
"  You  want  to  be  told  so,  I  suppose  —  There  !  you 
pulled  my  hair  on  purpose,  you  know  you  did,  Rosita 
Thrailkill." 

"  I  did  n't,  Patita.  Don't  fire  up  so."  And  Rosita, 
who  was  the  most  amiable  of  children,  tied  the  end  of 
the  braid  with  a  piece  of  tape,  rubbed  her  blooming 
cheek  against  the  pale  one,  and  was  forgiven. 

Patience  drew  herself  into  the  buggy  and  braced  her 
back  against  the  seat.  Her  face  had  little  more  beauty 
than  her  legs.  It  was  colourless  and  freckled.  The 
mouth  was  firm,  almost  dogged,  as  if  the  contest  with 
life  had  already  begun.  Her  brows  and  lashes  were 
several  shades  darker  than  her  hair,  but  her  eyes,  wide 
apart  and  very  bright,  were  a  light,  rather  cold  grey. 
The  nose  alone  was  a  beautiful  feature,  straight  and 
fine;  and  the  hands,  although  rough  and  sunburned, 
were  tapering  and  slender,  and  very  flexible. 

In  her  red  frock,  the  highly-coloured  little  Spanish 
girl  glowed  like  a  cactus  blossom  beside  a  neglected 
weed.  Her  plump  face  was  full  of  blood ;  her  large 
dark  eyes  were  indolent  and  soft.  Patience's  eyes 
comprehended  everything  within  their  radius  in  one 
flashing  glance ;  Rosita's,  even  at  the  tender  age  of 
fifteen,  looked  unswerving  disapproval  of  all  exertion, 
mental  or  physical. 

"  I  wonder  if  your  mother  is  drunk?  "  she  asked  in 
her  slow  delicious  voice. 

"  Likely,"  said  Patience,  with  frowning  resignation. 
"  But  let 's  talk  of  something  more  agreeable.  Is  n't 
this  perfume  heavenly?  " 

The  dark  solemn  woods  were  ravishing  with  the  per- 
fumes of  spring,  the  perfume  of  wild  violet  and  lilac 


6       Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

and  lily,  and  the  faint  sweet  odour  the  damp  earth  gives 
up  as  the  sun  goes  down.  From  above  came  the  strong 
bracing  scent  of  the  pines.  Now  and  again  the  wind 
brought  a  salt  whiff  from  the  ocean.  No  birds  carolled, 
but  the  pines  sang  their  eternal  dirge. 

"What 's  your  ideal?  "  demanded  Patience. 

"Ideal?     What  ideal?" 

"  Why,  of  man,  of  course." 

"  Oh,  man  !  "  contemptuously.  "  I  have  n't  thought 
much  about  men.  I  don't  read  novels  like  you  do.  I 
wish  somebody  would  die  and  leave  me  a  thousand 
dollars  so  I  could  live  in  San  Francisco  and  have  a  new 
dress  every  day  and  go  to  the  theatre  every  night. 
Miss  Galpin  says  we  must  n't  think  about  boys,  and  I 
don't  —  perhaps  because  the  boys  in  Monterey  are  so 
horrid." 

"Boys?  Who  said  anything  about  boys?"  The 
chrysalis  elevated  her  patrician  nose.  "  I  mean 
men." 

"  Well,  you  're  mean  to  turn  up  your  nose  at  boys. 
They  like  you  a  good  deal  better  than  they  do  me,  and 
a  good  many  of  the  other  girls." 

"That's  funny,  isn't  it?  and  I  not  pretty.  But  I 
suppose  it 's  because  I  talk.  You  just  sit  still  and  look 
pretty,  and  that 's  not  very  entertaining.  I  read  in  a 
novel  that  men  like  that;  but  boys  have  got  to  be 
entertained.  Goodness  gracious  !  Don't  I  know  it? 
When  I  was  at  Manuela's  party  the  other  night  in  my 
old  washed  muslin  frock  and  plaid  sash,  did  n't  I  talk 
my  throat  sore  to  make  them  forget  that  I  was  the 
worst  dressed  girl  in  the  room  and  had  the  most 
freckles  ?  Of  course  the  girls  did  n't  forget  —  nor  some 
other  things  —  "  with  a  bitter  lowering  of  the  lids  — 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times       7 

"  but  the  boys  did.     Somehow  I  feel  as  if  men  would 
always  be  my  friends,  if  I  'm  not  pretty." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  men,  anyhow  ?  You  're 
only  fifteen,  and  you  Ve  never  met  any  but  old  Mr. 
Foord,  and  the  farm  hands  and  store  keepers,  who," 
aristocratically,  "  don't  count." 

"  Have  n't  I  read  novels  ?  Have  n't  I  read  Thackeray 
and  Dickens  and  Scott  and  *  Jane  Eyre  '  and  '  Wuther-  | 
ing  Heights '  and  Shakespeare  and  Plutarch's  Lives,  and 
the  life  of  Napoleon  and  Macaulay's  '  History  of  Eng- 
land '  and  Essays  —  those  all  ain't  novels,  but  they  write 
about  men,  real  men,  too.  I  've  made  my  ideal  out  of 
a  lot  of  them  put  together,  and  I  '11  never  marry  till  I 
find  him." 

"  Well,  I  'd  like  to  know  where  you  '11  find  him  in 
Monterey,"  said  the  practical  Rosita.  "  Miss  Galpin 
says  you  're  too  romantic,  and  that  it 's  a  pity,  because 
you  're  the  brightest  girl  in  the  school." 

"  Did  Miss  Galpin  say  that?  "  Patience  took  a  brass 
pin  out  of  her  frock  and  extracted  a  splinter  from  her 
thumb  with  a  fine  air  of  indifference;  but  the  pink 
flooded  her  cheek.  "She's  always  reading  Howells 
and  James,  and  says  they  'd  keep  anybody  from  being 
romantic.  But  that 's  about  all  I  Ve  got,  so  I  think 
I  '11  hold  on  to  it." 

The  sun  dropped  below  the  horizon  as  they  jolted 
out  of  the  woods  and  down  the  steep  road  toward 
Carmel  Valley.  They  reached  a  ledge,  and  Patience, 
forgetful  of  hungry  men  and  an  irascible  parent,  called  : 
"  Whoa ! "  to  which  Billy  responded  with  an  alacrity 
reserved  for  such  occasions  only. 

"  I  never  get  tired  of  this,"  she  said.     "  Do  you?  " 

"  It 's  pretty,"  said  Rosita,  indifferently.     "  Why  are 


8       Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

you  so  fond  of  scenery  —  nature,  as  Miss  Galpin  calls 
it  —  I  wonder?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Patience,  and  at  that  age  she 
did  not.  She  was  responsive  but  dumb.  She  gazed 
down  and  out  and  upward  with  a  pleasure  that  never 
grew  old.  A  great  bleak  mountain  loomed  on  the 
other  side  of  the  valley.  It  was  as  steep  as  if  the 
ocean  had  gnawed  it  flat,  but  only  the  peaceful  valley 
lay  under ;  out  in  the  ocean  it  tapered  to  an  immense 
irregular  mass  of  rock  over  which  the  breakers  leapt 
and  fought.  Carmel  River  sparkled  peacefully  beneath 
its  moving  willows.  The  blue  bay  murmured  to  the 
white  sands  with  the  peace  of  evening.  Close  to  the 
little  beach  the  old  Mission  hung  its  dilapidated  head. 
Through  its  yawning  arches  dark  objects  flitted  ;  mould 
was  on  the  yellow  walls;  from  yawning  crevice  the 
rank  grass  grew.  Only  the  tower  still  defied  elements 
and  vandals,  although  the  wind  whistled  through  its  gap- 
ing windows  and  the  silver  bells  were  no  more.  The 
huts  about  the  church  had  collapsed  like  old  muscles, 
but  in  their  ruin  still  whispered  the  story  of  the  past. 

"  Isn't  it  splendid  to  think  that  we  have  a  ruin  !  " 
exclaimed  Patience. 

"  It 's  a  ruin  sure  enough ;  but  there  's  uncle  Jim. 
He  must  think  we  're  dead." 

A  prolonged  "  Halloa  !  "  came  from  the  valley,  and 
Patience,  with  a  sigh,  bade  Billy  "  Git  up,"  which  he 
did  in  the  course  of  a  moment. 

"Halloa,  you  youngsters,  why  don't  you  hurry?" 
cried  a  nasal  voice.  "  I  've  been  waiting  here  an  hour." 

"  Coming,"  said  Patience.  "  It 's  too  bad  he  had 
to  wait." 

"  Oh,  he  smoked  and  swore,  so  he  's  all  right,"  said 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times       9 

Rosita,  who  had  not  taken  the  trouble  to  reply.  None 
of  the  girls  was  allowed  to  visit  Patience  at  her  house ; 
but  Mrs.  Thrailkill,  who  was  fond  of  her  daughter's 
chosen  friend,  and  pitiful  in  her  indolent  way,  often 
allowed  Patience  to  drive  Rosita  as  far  as  the  branch- 
ing of  the  roads,  where  the  Kentucky  uncle  met  his 
niece  and  took  her  to  his  farm. 

In  the  dusk  below  a  wagon  and  two  horses  could  be 
seen,  and  a  big  man  under  a  wide  straw  hat,  sitting  on 
the  upper  rail  of  a  fence,  his  heels  hooked  to  the  rail 
below.  Patience  inferred  that  he  was  chewing  tobacco 
and  expectorating  upon  the  poppies. 

"Well,  I  reckon!"  he  exclaimed  as  the  buggy- 
reached  the  foot  of  the  hill.  "  You  two  do  beat  all. 
Do  you  s'pose  I  Ve  got  nothing  better  to  do  than  moon 
round  pikes  waiting  on  kids  like  you  ?  How  's  your 
ma,  Rosita?  Well,  Patience,  I  won't  keep  you  — 
much  obliged  for  giving  my  lazy  Spanish  niece  a  lift. 
Come  on  now ;  supper 's  ready  'n  after." 

The  two  little  girls  kissed  each  other  affectionately. 
Mr.  Thrailkill  lifted  Rosita  down,  and  Patience  turned 
Billy  in  the  direction  of  a  fiery  eye  and  a  dim  column 
of  smoke  under  the  mountain.  The  evening  seemed 
very  quiet  after  the  rattle  of  Mr.  ThrailkiU's  team  had 
become  a  part  of  the  distance.  Only  the  roar  of  the 
surf,  the  moaning  of  the  pines,  the  harsh  music  of  the 
frogs,  the  thousand  vocal  mysteries  of  night  —  not  a 
sound  of  man.  Patience,  after  her  fashion,  rehabilitated 
the  Mission  and  peopled  the  valley  with  padres  and 
Indians;  but  when  Billy  came  to  a  sudden  halt,  she 
sprang  prosaically  to  the  ground  and  let  down  the  bars 
of  her  mother's  ranch.  After  she  had  replaced  them 
she  took  hold  of  Billy's  bridle,  and  endeavoured,  by 


io    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

jerks  and  expostulation,  to  induce  him  to  move  more 
rapidly.  The  road  now  lay  through  a  ploughed  field 
stretching  gloomily  on  the  east  to  the  horizon,  where 
the  stars  seemed  dropping  into  the  dark.  Cows 
roamed  at  will,  or  lay  heavily  in  their  first  sleep.  Here 
and  there  an  oak  thrust  out  its  twisted  arms,  its  trunk 
bent  backward  by  ocean  winds.  The  house  soon  be- 
came plainly  outlined,  a  long  unpainted  wooden  story- 
and-a-half  structure,  the  type  of  ranch  house  of  the 
second  era.  Castilian  roses  clambered  up  the  un- 
painted front.  Clumps  of  gladiolus,  pinks,  and  fuschias 
struggled  with  weeds  in  the  front  garden.  Beyond 
was  a  number  of  out-buildings. 

When  Patience  reached  the  porch  she  dropped 
Billy's  bridle,  lifted  out  the  sugar,  and  stepping  to  the 
kitchen  window,  looked  through  it  for  a  moment  be- 
fore opening  the  door.  Her  mother  was  very  drunk. 


ii 


THE  room  into  which  Patience  frowned  was  a  large 
rough  kitchen  of  the  old  familiar  type.  The  rafters 
were  festooned  with  cobwebs,  through  which  tin  cans 
and  aged  pails  were  visible,  and  an  occasional  bundle 
of  rags.  The  board  walls  were  unplastered  and  un- 
painted. Out  of  the  uneven  floor,  knots  had  dropped 
to  the  cellar  below.  The  door  of  a  cupboard,  built 
against  the  wall  with  primitive  simplicity,  stood  open, 
revealing  a  motley  collection  of  cans,  bottles,  and 
cracked  dishes.  Pots  and  pans  were  heaped  on  a  shelf 
traversing  two  sides  of  the  room.  A  table  was  loaded 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     n 

with  odds  and  ends,  in  the  midst  of  which  place  had 
been  made  for  a  lamp. 

Over  a  large  stove  a  woman  was  frying  bacon  and 
eggs.  She  wore  a  brown  calico  garment,  torn  and 
smudged.  Her  fine  black  hair,  sprinkled  with  ashes, 
hung  raggedly  above  magnificent  dark  eyes,  blinking  in 
a  crimson  face.  The  thin  nostrils  and  full  mouth  were 
twitching.  In  her  ruin  she  was  still  a  beautiful  woman, 
and  she  moved  her  tall  bloated  form  with  the  pride  of 
race,  despite  the  alcohol  in  her  veins. 

On  a  broken  chair  by  the  stove  sat  a  young  man  in 
the  overalls  and  flannel  shirt  of  a  farm  hand.  His  hair 
was  clipped  to  his  skull  with  colourless  result ;  his  large 
red  under  lip  curved  down  into  a  yellow  beard.  In  a 
long  low  room  adjoining  the  kitchen  a  half  dozen  other 
men  were  seated  on  benches  about  a  table  covered  with 
white  oilcloth  and  chipped  crockery.  They  also  wore 
overalls  and  flannel  shirts ;  and  they  were  bearded  and 
seamed  and  brown.  The  Californian  sun  soon  burns 
the  juices  out  of  the  flesh  that  defies  it. 

Patience  flung  open  the  kitchen  door  and  threw  the 
sugar  on  the  table. 

"  Oscar,"  she  said  peremptorily  to  the  man  by  the 
stove,  "  take  Billy  round  to  the  barn  and  put  him  up, 
and  bring  in  the  flour  and  the  beans.  They  're  under 
the  seat."  The  man  went  out,  muttering  angrily,  and 
she  turned  to  her  mother,  who  had  begun  a  tirade  of 
abuse.  "  Keep  quiet,"  she  said.  "  So  you  're  drunk 
again  ?  I  thought  you  promised  me  that  you  would  n't 
drink  again  for  a  week.  Where  did  you  get  it?  " 

"  Could  n't  help  it,"  muttered  the  woman,  cowed  by 
the  bitter  contempt  in  her  small  daughter's  eyes,  and 
thrusting  a  long  fork  into  the  sputtering  fat. 


12     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"  Could  n't  help  it." 

Patience  opened  the  package  of  sugar  with  a  jerk, 
and  filling  two  bowls  with  the  coarse  brown  stuff  carried 
them  into  the  next  room  and  set  them  at  opposite  ends 
of  the  table.  The  men  ceased  talking  as  she  entered, 
and  saluted  her  respectfully.  They  felt  vaguely  sorry 
for  her ;  but  they  were  afraid  of  her,  and  she  was  not  a 
favourite  with  them.  Her  mother,  "  Madge,"  as  they 
called  her  to  a  man,  they  worshipped,  despite  or 
because  of  her  peccability.  They  went  down  before 
her  deathless  magnetism,  her  coarse  good  nature,  her 
spurious  kind-heartedness.  It  was  only  when  very  drunk 
that  she  became  violent  and  vituperative,  and  even  then 
she  fascinated  them.  Patience  told  herself  proudly  that 
she  had  no  attraction  for  "common  men"  —  that  she 
re  celled  them.  Not  being  a  seer,  she  was  saved  the 
foreknowledge  of  a  fatal  gift  in  operation. 

She  took  the  large  coffee-pot  from  the  back  of  the 
stove  and  filled  the  men's  cups  with  its  thick  fluid. 
Her  mother's  rolling  eyes  followed  her  with  a  malignant 
.sparkle.  She  was  afraid  of  her  daughter,  and  resent- 
ment had  eaten  deep  into  her  perverted  nature. 
Patience  filled  a  plate  with  bread  and  apple  sauce,  and 
went  into  the  parlour  to  eat  her  supper  in  solitude.  She 
took  all  her  meals  in  this  room,  which  with  little  diffi- 
culty she  appropriated  to  her  exclusive  use  :  it  was  very 
small.  She  kept  it  in  fairly  good  order :  she  was  not 
the  tidiest  of  children.  But  the  old  brussels  carpet  was 
clean,  barring  the  corners,  and  the  horsehair  furniture 
had  been  mended  here  and  there  with  shoe  thread. 
As  it  still  prickled,  however,  Patience  had  made  a 
cushion  for  the  clumsy  rocker  out  of  an  elderly  gown 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     13 

which  she  had  found  in  a  trunk  in  the  garret  with  other 
relics  of  finery.  She  occupied  the  rocker  impartially 
whether  eating  or  reading.  The  marble-topped  table 
also  served  for  dining  and  study. 

In  a  forlorn  old  bookcase  were  her  only  treasures, 
the  few  books,  mostly  classics,  which  John  Sparhawk 
had  reserved  when  a  succession  of  failures  had  forced 
him  to  sell  his  library  to  Mr.  Foord.  In  one  corner 
was  a  large  family  Bible  on  a  small  table.  It  was  old 
and  worn.  Its  gilt  edges  shone  dimly  through  a  cob- 
web of  infinite  pains. 

On  the  papered  walls  were  two  large  coloured  photo- 
graphs of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sparhawk,  taken  apparently 
when  each  was  close  on  thirty  years.  The  woman's 
face  bore  traces  of  dissipation  even  then,  and  the  red 
mouth  was  very  sensual.  But  the  cheeks  were  still 
delicate  and  there  were  no  bags  under  the  large  flaming 
eyes.  The  bare  neck  and  arms  and  half  revealed  bust 
were  superb ;  the  poise  of  the  head,  the  curve  of  the 
short  upper  lip,  the  fine  arched  nostril,  were  the  deli- 
cate insignia  of  race;  the  pride  stamped  on  every 
feature  was  that  of  birth,  not  of  defiance.  The  man 
had  a  slender  upright  figure  and  a  finely  modelled  head 
and  face.  The  deeply  set  eyes  were  cold  and  piercing, 
but  between  the  stern  curves  of  the  mouth  there  was 
much  passion.  Patience  had  studied  these  faces,  but 
she  was  as  innocent  as  if  she  had  been  bred  in  a  cloister, 
and  their  mystery  baffled  while  it  allured  her. 

She  ate  her  supper  with  a  hearty  appetite.  Her 
mother's  lapses,  being  accepted  as  part  of  the  routine 
of  existence,  rarely  depressed  her  spirits.  Nevertheless 
she  frowned  heavily  as  turbulent  sounds  pierced  the 
thin  partition,  not  so  much  at  her  mother's  iniquity,  as 


14     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

at  the  prospect  of  being  obliged  to  wash  the  supper 
dishes.  The  expected  crash  came,  and  she  ran  into  the 
kitchen.  Her  mother  lay  prone.  Two  of  the  men 
lifted  her  immediately  and  carried  her  up  the  narrow 
stair.  Patience  sullenly  attacked  the  dishes.  She 
dumped  them  into  a  large  pan  of  hot  water,  stirred  them 
gingerly  with  a  cloth  fastened  to  a  stick,  drained  the 
water  off,  poured  in  a  fresh  pailful,  and  dried  them 
hastily.  She  filled  the  frying-pan  with  water  and  set  it 
on  the  hottest  part  of  the  stove  to  cook  itself  clean. 
Occasionally  she  coughed  with  angry  significance  :  the 
men  in  the  next  room  were  invisible  behind  a  grey  fog 
of  their  own  puffing.  She  spattered  her  clean  pinafore, 
blackened  her  hands,  and  devoutly  wished  herself  alone 
on  a  desert  island  where  she  could  live  on  cocoanuts 
and  bananas.  At  such  times  she  forgot  the  few  com- 
pensations of  her  unfortunate  life  and  felt  herself  only 
the  poverty-stricken  drudge,  the  daughter  of  Madge 
Sparhawk. 


in 


WHO  Madge  Sparhawk  was  before  she  married  the 
Yankee  rancher  had  at  one  time  been  an  absorbing 
topic  for  dispute  in  Monterey.  One  gossip  averred 
that  she  had  been  the  dashing  leader  of  the  lower  ten 
thousand  of  San  Francisco,  another  that  she  had  come 
from  the  Eastern  States  as  the  mistress  of  a  wealthy 
man  who  had  wearied  and  cast  her  off;  a  third  con- 
fidently affirmed  that  she  had  been  a  brilliant  New 
York  woman  of  fashion  who  had  gone  wrong  through 
love  of  drink,  and  been  sent  under  an  assumed 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     15 

name  to  California  by  her  afflicted  family;  a  fourth 
swore  that  she  had  been  an  actress,  a  fifth  that  she 
had  been  the  high-tempered  queen  of  a  gambling 
house.  On  one  point  all  agreed  :  she  was  disreputable, 
and  John  Sparhawk  was  a  fool  to  marry  her.  How- 
ever, they  were  somewhat  disappointed  that  they  saw 
so  little  of  her.  They  were  not  called  upon  to  snub 
nor  tolerate  her.  She  rarely  came  into  the  town ;  never 
excepting  on  horseback  with  her  husband,  when  her 
splendid  beauty  drew  masculine  Monterey  from  its 
perch  on  the  fence  tops, —  where  it  sat  and  smoked 
and  murmured  the  hours  away, —  and  gathered  it  about 
her,  stirring  the  diluted  rill  of  caballero  blood. 

As  far  as  the  little  world  of  Monterey  could  learn 
through  the  gossip  of  servants,  she  was  a  helpful  wife 
to  a  devoted  husband  who  patiently  strove  with  the 
fiend  that  possessed  her.  When  he  was  killed  by  the 
accidental  discharge  of  a  gun  her  grief  was  so  violent 
that  only  a  prolonged  carouse  could  assuage  it.  Sub- 
sequently she  recovered,  and  with  occasional  advice 
from  Mr.  Foord  attempted  to  run  the  farm.  As  John 
Sparhawk  had  made  no  will,  she  was  her  child's  legal 
guardian,  the  absolute  mistress  for  eight  years  of  what 
property  her  husband  had  left.  There  was  a  little 
ready  money,  the  dairy  was  remunerative,  and  the  ranch 
well  stocked.  But  that  was  five  years  ago.  Her  habits 
had  grown  upon  her;  the  ranch  was  mortgaged  and 
run  down,  the  stock  decreased  by  half. 

Patience  had  rebelled  heavily  at  her  father's  death, 
and  wondered,  with  childish  logic,  why,  if  one  parent 
had  to  die,  it  could  not  have  been  her  mother.  Her 
father's  manner  had  been  cold,  repellent,  like  her  own ; 
but  that  his  nature  was  deep  and  passionate  even  her 


1 6     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

young  mind  had  never  doubted.  She  felt  it  in  the 
close  clasp  of  his  arms  as  he  held  her  before  him  on  his 
horse  when  galloping  about  the  ranch ;  in  his  sudden 
infrequent  caress ;  in  the  strong  pressure  of  his  hand  as 
they  wandered  through  the  woods  or  along  the  shore  at 
night,  not  a  word  spoken  between  them. 

It  was  not  until  after  his  death  that  she  made  ac- 
quaintance with  her  social  separateness.  He  had 
begun  her  education  himself.  Her  only  girl  compan- 
ion was  Rosita  Thrailkill,  the  niece  of  a  neighbour,  whom 
her  father  would  not  permit  her  to  visit  in  Monterey. 
John  Sparhawk's  only  friends  were  the  Thrailkill  brothers 
and  Mr.  Foord,  an  elderly  gentleman,  who  had  lived  in 
Monterey  under  the  old  regime,  lost  his  fortune  in  the 
great  Bonanza  time,  and  returned  to  the  somnolent 
town  to  end  his  days  with  his  library,  the  memory  of 
his  dead  Spanish  wife,  and  a  few  old  friends,  world- 
forgotten  like  himself.  He  lived  in  the  dilapidated 
Custom  House  on  the  rocks  at  the  edge  of  the  town, 
and  Patience  had  ruled  his  establishment  since  her 
baby  days.  It  was  the  only  house  in  Monterey  she  was 
permitted  to  enter,  and  she  entered  it  as  often  as  she 
could.  A  hundred  times  she  had  sat  with  the  old 
gentleman  on  the  upper  corridor  and  listened  to  the 
story  of  the  capture  of  Monterey  by  the  United  States 
fleet  in  1846  ;  stared  breathlessly  at  the  crumbling  fort 
— the  castillo  —  on  the  hill  above  Junipero  Serra's 
cross,  as  Mr.  Foord  verbally  restored  its  former  impreg- 
nability. 

He  told  her  tales  of  the  day^of^  light  and  life  and 
joy  when  Monterey  was  the  capital  of  the  Californians, 
and  the  Americans  were  not  yet  come,  —  stories  of  love 
and  revenge  and  the  great  free  play  of  the  primitive 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     17 

passions,  unpared  by  modern  civilisation.  For  her 
those  old  adobe  houses  in  the  town  were  alive  once 
more  with  dark-eyed  donas  and  magnificently  attired 
caballeros.  Behind  the  high  walls  of  the  old  gardens 
fans  fluttered  among  the  Castilian  roses  and  duenas 
stealthily  prowled.  The  twisted  streets  were  gay  again 
with  the  court  life  of  the  olden  time,  the  grand  parades 
of  the  governors,  the  triumphant  returns  from  the  race 
on  the  restless  silver-trapped  steeds. 

Every  house  had  its  history,  and  Patience  knew  them 
all.  She  wandered  with  Mr.  Foord  along  the  dusty 
streets,  lingered  before  the  garden  walls,  over  which  she 
could  see  and  smell  the  nasturtiums  and  the  sweet 
Castilian  roses.  But  gone  were  the  caballeros  and  the 
donas.  They  lay  in  the  little  cemetery  of  the  padres 
on  the  hill,  over  beyond  the  yellow  church  which 
marked  a  corner  of  the  old  presidio,  and  well  on  the 
road  to  a  great  hotel  whose  typical  life  was  vastly  dif- 
ferent from  ^haT~"6Idr  romantic  time.  They  lay  under 
their  stones,  forgotten.  The  thistles  and  wild  oats 
rioted  under  the  gnarled  old  oaks.  The  new-comer 
never  paused  to  glance  at  the  worn  carvings  on  the 
thick  rough  slabs. 

Behind  the  garden  walls  a  few  brown  old  women 
lived  alone,  too  practical  to  brood  upon  an  enchanted 
past.  Cows  nibbled  in  the  plaza  where  once  the  bull 
and  the  bear  had  fought  while  the  gay  jewelled  people 
screamed  with  delight.  Gone  was  the  tinkle  of  the 
guitar,  the  flutter  of  fan,  the  graceful  woman  hasten- 
ing down  the  street  half  hidden  in  her  mantilla,  the 
lovely  face  behind  the  grating.  The  screaming  of  the 
sea-gulls,  the  moaning  of  the  pines,  the  roar  of  the  surf, 
alone  remained  the  same,  careless  of  change  or  decay. 


1 8     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Wooden  houses  crowded  between  the  old  adobes. 
Most  of  the  Spanish  families  were  half  American  :  their 
women  had  preferred  the  enterprising  intruder  to  the 
indolent ^caballero.  Arcadia  was  no  more.  The  old  had 
kissed  the  hand  of  the  new,  and  spawned  a  hybrid. 

After  John  Sparhawk's  death,  Mr.  Foord  persuaded 
his  widow  to  send  Patience  to  the  public  school.  The 
little  girl  was  delighted.  She  had  looked  with  envious 
longing  at  the  stone  building,  painted  a  beautiful  pink, 
which  stood  well  up  on  the  hill  at  the  right  of  the  town 
and  was  still  known  by  the  imposing  name  of  Colton 
Hall ;  it  had  been  built  by  the  first  American  alcalde, 
and  was  a  court  house  for  a  brief  while. 

But  it  was  not  long  before  Patience  learned  the 
bitter  lesson  that  she  was  not  as  other  girls,  despite 
the  fact  that  at  that  time  she  was  well  dressed  and  that 
she  drifted  naturally  to  the  head  of  her  classes.  School 
girls  are  coarse  and  cruel.  Children  are  the  periodical 
relapse  of  civilisation  into  savagery.  These  girls  of 
Monterey  excluded  Patience  from  their  games  and 
recess  conversations,  and  intimated  broadly  that  her 
mother  was  not  respectable. 

At  first  Patience  gave  them  little  heed.  She  loved 
study,  and  was  of  a  wild  happy  nature  beneath  her  prim 
exterior.  Moreover,  Rosita  was  her  loyal  friend ;  and 
one  of  the  older  girls,  Manuela  Peralta,  who  had  a  kind 
and  independent  heart,  sheltered  her  as  much  as  she 
could.  But  Patience  was  too  bright  and  observing  to 
remain  long  in  ignorance  of  her  hostile  environment. 
When  the  awakening  came  her  young  soul  was  filled 
with  rage  and  bitterness.  The  full  meaning  of  their 
innuendoes  she  was  too  ignorant  to  understand,  but  that 
she  was  regarded  as  a  pariah  was  sufficiently  evident. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     19 

Little  as  she  loved  her  mother,  a  natural  impulse  sent 
her  to  her  only  remaining  parent  with  the  story  of  her 
wrongs.  Mrs.  Sparhawk  became  violently  indignant 
and  shortly  after  very  drunk.  The  subject  was  never 
mentioned  between  them  again ;  nor  did  Patience 
speak  of  it  with  any  one  but  Rosita,  whom  she  regarded 
as  a  second,  beloved,  and  somewhat  inferior  self.  But 
her  soul  cried  out  for  the  strength  that  only  a  man's 
strong  soul  can  give  to  woman  at  any  age ;  and  the 
man  that  had  prayed  to  live  and  defend  her  lay  with 
the  forgotten  Californians  on  the  hill. 

Mr.  Foord  divined  her  trouble,  and  did  what  he 
could  to  make  her  life  endurable,  although  her  shy 
reserve  forbade  any  intimacy  beyond  the  old  friend- 
ship. Miss  Galpin,  her  teacher,  made  no  secret  of 
the  fact  that  Patience  was  her  favourite  scholar,  and 
encouraged  her  to  study  and  read  and  forget. 

Patience  indulged  in  no  further  outbreak,  even  to 
herself.  She  cultivated  a  cold  and  impassive  exterior, 
an  air  of  rigid  indifference,  and  studied  until  her  small 
head  ached.  She  was  not  old  enough  to  analyse;  it 
was  instinct  only  that  made  her  assume  callousness; 
but  in  her  young  vague  way  she  grappled  with  the 
social  problem.  She  did  not  approve  of  Mrs.  Spar- 
hawk  any  more  than  others  did;  but  Mrs.  Spar- 
hawk's  daughter  behaved  herself,  and  stood  at  the 
head  of  her  classes,  and  had  been  assured  again  and 
again  that  she  "looked  like  a  little  lady:"  therefore 
she  was  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  why  Patience  Spar- 
hawk  was  not  as  good  as  other  girls.  There  was 
Panchita  McPherson,  who  lied  profusely  and  whose 
mother  sat  in  the  sun  all  day  and  baked  herself  like  an 
old  crocodile,  while  her  husband  sat  on  the  fence  by 


2O     Patience  Sparhav/k  and  Her  Times 

the  Post  Office  and  smoked  a  pipe  from  the  first  of 
January  until  the  thirty-first  of  December.  Yet  Pan- 
chita  was  of  the  haute  noblesse,  and  treated  Patience  as 
she  would  a  rag-picker.  Francesca  Montez  never 
knew  a  lesson  and  was  so  vulgar  that  she  brought  the 
blush  to  Patience's  cheek ;  but  she  lived  in  an  adobe 
mansion  which  once  had  been  the  scene  of  princely 
splendour,  and  gave  two  parties  a  year.  The  American 
girls  had  not  even  the  prestige  of  the  past ;  they  could 
not  reckon  up  a  great-grandfather  between  them,  much 
less  peeling  portraits  of  caballeros  and  trunks  of  splendid 
finery ;  but  they  were  bright  and  aggressive,  and  made 
themselves  a  power  in  the  school. 

As  Patience  grew  older  she  compelled  the  respect  of 
her  mates,  and  they  ceased  to  annoy  her.  The  con- 
sciousness of  social  supremacy  never  faded,  not  for  an 
instant ;  but  even  tying  a  tin  canto  a  dog's  tail  becomes 
monotonous  in  time,  and  they  had  numberless  little 
interests  to  absorb  them.  If  Patience  had  been  a  rol- 
licking emotional  child  she  would  doubtless  have  kissed 
herself  into  popularity  and  been  treated  to  much  good- 
natured  patronage  ;  but  she  scorned  placation,  and  grew 
more  reserved  as  the  years  went  by.  She  accepted  her 
fate,  and  discovered  that  there  were  times  and  hours 
when  her  mother,  schoolmates,  and  social  problems 
could  be  forgotten.  Her  spirits  were  naturally  buoyant, 
and  her  mind  grew  philosophical;  but  as  Mr.  Foord 
once  observed  to  Miss  Galpin,  "  her  start  in  life  had 
been  all  wrong,  and  it  would  matter  more  with  her 
than  with  some  others." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    21 


IV 


AFTER  Patience  had  put  the  kitchen  in  order  she  went 
up  to  her  room.  She  slept  at  one  end  of  the  house, 
her  mother  at  the  opposite.  Several  of  the  hired  men 
occupied  a  dormitory  between ;  the  rest  slept  over  the 
dairy. 

She  lit  her  candle  and  began  to  undress,  then  ex- 
tinguished the  flame  suddenly  and  went  down  stairs 
and  out  of  the  house.  She  felt  sullen  and  heavy  and 
depressed,  and  knew  the  remedy. 

The  moon  was  at  the  full ;  the  great  ploughed  fields 
were  a  sea  of  silver;  the  dark  pines  on  the  hills 
opened  their  aisles  to  cataracts  of  crystal,  splashing 
through  the  green  uplifted  arms.  Strange  shadows 
moved  amidst  the  showers  of  cold  light,  twisting  rhyth- 
mically under  the  touch  of  the  night  wind. 

Patience  loved  nature  too  passionately  to  fear  her  in 
any  mood  or  hour.  She  sped  over  the  rough  field,  \N 
climbed  the  fence,  and  walked  hastily  toward  the  Mis- 
sion,  pausing  now  and  again  to  inhale  the  rich  per- 
fumes of  Spring.  The  ruin  looked  like  the  skeleton  of 
a  mammoth  caught  in  a  phantom  iceberg.  Even  the 
dark  things  that  haunted  it  were  touched  to  beauty  by 
the  silver  light  pouring  through  the  storm-beaten  rose 
window  over  the  massive  doors,  into  the  abysms  be- 
tween the  arches. 

Patience  skirted  the  long  body  of  the  church  with 
haste;  mouldering  skeletons  lay  under  the  floor,  and 
like  all  imaginative  minds  she  had  a  lively  horror  of  the 
dead.  She  entered  the  open  doorway  and  ascended 


22     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

the  steep  spiral  stair  in  the  tower.  The  steps  were  cut 
from  solid  stone  and  were  worn  by  the  trampling  of 
many  feet.  As  she  neared  the  top  she  called, — 

"  Tu  wit !     Tu  woo  !  "  and  was  promptly  answered. 

As  her  chin  appeared  above  the  floor  of  the  little 
room,  where  the  moonlight  came  through  hollow  case- 
ments, an  old  grey  owl,  a  large  wise  solemn  owl,  ad- 
vanced from  the  wall  with  slow  and  stately  step ;  and 
despite  his  massive  dignity  there  was  expectancy  in 
his  mien. 

"Poor  Solomon,"  said  Patience,  contritely.  "I  for- 
got your  supper."  She  climbed  into  the  room  and 
attempted  to  pat  his  head ;  but  when  he  saw  that  the 
hand  was  empty,  he  flapped  his  wings,  and  turning  his 
back  upon  her,  retired  to  the  wall,  blinking  indignantly. 

Patience  laughed,  then  sighed,  and  sank  on  her  knees 
before  the  low  window  overlooking  the  ocean.  The 
blue  bay  still  whispered  to  the  white  sands  sparkling 
like  diamond  dust  in  the  moonlight,  the  yellow  stars 
winking  in  its  clear  depths.  But  the  ocean  was  uneasy, 
and  hurtled  reiterantly  in  great  deep-throated  waves 
at  the  rocky  shore  as  if  its  giant  soul  were  in  final  re- 
bellion against  this  conventional  war  with  a  passive  foe. 
About  Point  Lobos  its  voice  waxed  trumpet-toned.  It 
shouldered  itself  into  mighty  waves  and  tossed  the  spray 
into  writhing  shapes.  Everything  else  was  at  rest.  The 
great  forces  of  nature  were  the  angry  prisoners  of  the 
tides.  The  moon  grinned  in  his  superior  way.  The  little 
stars  seemed  to  say  :  "  Up  here  we  are  quite  composed, 
and  as  vain  as  pretty  women.  If  you  would  only  keep 
quiet  you  would  make  such  a  fine  large  looking-glass." 

As  Patience  gazed  out  upon  the  beautiful  scene,  her 
young  mind  shifted  its  impressions.  She  forgot  her  life, 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     23 

and  began  to  dream  in  a  vague  sweet  way.  Not  of  a 
lover.  Despite  the  fact  that  she  had  manufactured  a 
composite  which  occupied  a  pedestal  in  her  imagina- 
tion, she  thought  little  about  love.  Her  reveries  were 
a  wandering  of  her  ego  through  the  books  she  had  read, 
environed  by  the  nature  whom  she  knew  only  in  lovely 
profile.  Had  she  lived  her  fifteen  years  on  the  sterile 
plains  of  Soledad,  she  might  perhaps  have  been  as 
harsh  and  bitter  as  its  sands,  her  soul  as  grey,  so  sus- 
ceptible was  she  to  the  subtle  influence  of  great  exter- 
nals. But  Monterey  had  saved  her,  and  on  nights  like 
this  she  felt  as  if  she  too  were  flooded  with  crystal  light, 
now  and  again  clouded  by  something  which  perturbed, 
yet  vibrated  like  the  music  of  the  pines. 

When  in  a  particularly  romantic  mood,  she  imagined 
herself  Mariana  in  the  "  Moated  Grange,"  or  hummed 
"The  Long  Long  Weary  Day,"  and  tried  to  feel  sad, 
but  could  not.  She  never  felt  sad  in  her  tower,  with 
the  owl  on  guard  and  the  slighted  dead  in  the  church 
below.  Sometimes  she  took  herself  to  task  for  not 
having  a  proper  amount  of  sentiment,  but  concluded 
that  no  one  could  be  unhappy  when  so  high  above  the 
world  and  all  its  hateful  details.  Occasionally  she 
looked  longingly  at  the  perpendicular  mountain :  it 
was  many  times  higher  than  her  tower;  but  she  was 
a  lazy  little  thing,  and  would  not  climb. 

As  she  knelt,  gazing  out  on  the  ocean,  or  up  at  the 
spangled  night,  she  was  a  very  different-looking  being 
from  the  sharp  practical  child  that  had  exhorted 
old  Billy  and  berated  her  mother.  The  loosened  hair 
clung  softly  about  her  pale  face,  whose  freckles  the  kind 
moon  with  his  white  brush  painted  out.  Her  mouth 
had  relaxed  its  stern  lines.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  the 


24     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

moon's  shimmer,  and  of  something  else,  —  the  strug- 
gling light  of  a  developing  soul. 

Patience's  soul  had  taken  care  of  itself  and  showed 
virility  in  spite  of  the  forces  at  war  against  it.  What 
the  little  battling  spark  strove  for,  puzzled  Patience 
even  at  that  unanalytical  age.  Religion  —  Christianity, 
to  be  more  exact  —  said  nothing  to  her ;  it  appealed 
to  no  want  in  her ;  even  the  instinct  was  lacking.  John 
Sparhawk  had  clung  to  the  rigid  faith  of  his  fathers 
with  a  desperation  which  Patience,  child  as  she  was, 
had  half  divined.  He  had  had  prayers  night  and 
morning,  and  compelled  his  daughter  to  learn  her 
catechism  and  many  chapters  of  the  Bible.  After  his 
death  Mr.  Foord  took  her  to  church  on  Sunday  morn- 
ings and  occasionally  read  her  a  little  lecture.  She 
listened  respectfully,  but  felt  no  interest. 

Nevertheless,  when  alone  in  her  tower  at  night, 
when  she  had  set  her  foot  on  its  lowest  step  with  de- 
liberate intent  to  get  as  high  above  the  earth  as  she 
could,  she  was  conscious  of  an  upreaching  of  the  spir- 
itual entity  within  her,  a  wordless  demand  for  the  some- 
thing higher  and  holier  of  which  the  supreme  beauty  of 
the  Universe  is  symbolical. 


THE  next  morning,  Patience,  after  helping  her  con- 
valescent parent  to  get  breakfast,  stood  on  the  porch 
debating  whether  she  should  go  over  to  Mr.  Thrailkill's 
ranch  and  see  Rosita  or  spend  the  day  in  Mr.  Foord' s 
library. 


Patience  Spar  hawk  and  Her  Times     25 

The  scholars  of  Colton  Hall  had  a  week's  vacation, 
and  how  to  make  the  most  of  seven  long  days  of 
freedom  in  exquisite  spring  weather  was  a  serious 
question. 

As  she  hesitated  she  bethought  herself  of  Solomon. 
She  ran  to  the  safe,  and  gingerly  extracting  a  piece  of 
raw  meat  wrapped  it  in  a  newspaper,  and  went  over  to 
the  Mission.  The  owl  had  not  moved,  apparently,  from 
the  spot  where  he  had  taken  his  indignant  stand  the 
night  before.  When  he  scented  the  meat,  however, 
he  walked  majestically  forward,  and  taking  no  notice 
whatever  of  Patience,  began  at  once  upon  the  meal  she 
spread  at  his  feet. 

Patience  had  decided  in  favour  of  the  library,  and 
started  leisurely  for  Monterey.  The  ocean  rested 
heavily  after  its  labour  of  the  night,  swinging  forward  at 
long  intervals  with  deep  murmur,  or  throwing  an  occa- 
sional iridescent  cloud  of  spray  about  Point  Lobos. 
The  keen  air  sparkled  under  a  flood  of  golden  light. 
The  earth  was  green  with  the  deep  rich  green  of  spring. 
Great  bunches  of  it  sprang  from  even  the  ragged  moun- 
tain side,  and  long  blades  struggled  to  life  between 
the  broken  tiles  of  the  old  ^Mission.  Patience  crossed 
the  valley  through  beds  of  golden  poppies  and  pale 
blue  baby-eyes  struggling  with  infantile  pertinacity  to 
raise  themselves  above  the  waving  grass.  She  plucked 
a  poppy  and  held  her  nose  in  the  great  cup  that 
covered  half  her  face.  She  liked  the  slight  languor  its 
heavy  perfume  induced. 

She  climbed  the  hill,  and  the  woods  shut  out  the 
world.  Patience  forgot  her  destination  and  wandered 
happily  and  aimlessly  in  the  dim  fragrance.  She  plucked 
some  pine  needles,  and  rubbing  their  juices  free  pressed 


26     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

her  hands  about  her  face.     On  the  whole  she  preferred 
their  pungent  freshness  to  the  poppy. 

After  a  time  she  began  to  skip  over  the  carpet  of 
yellow  violets  and  to  sing  in  a  high  childish  treble.  She 
was  only  a  happy  little  girl  with  her  lungs  full  of  oxygen, 
her  veins  warmed  by  the  sun,  her  heart  exhilarated  with 
the  surpassing  beauty  of  the  morning.  She  threw  pebbles 
at  the  squirrels  and  laughed  loudly  when  they  scampered 
up  the  stately  trees.  Spiritual  problems  did  not  trouble 
her,  and  social  trials  were  forgotten. 

She  dawdled  away  the  earlier  hours  of  the  morning  in 
the  woods,  then  descending  the  hill  on  the  town  side, 
regained  her  severe  and  elderly  demeanour.  The  ocean 
was  not  visible  here,  but  a  bay  bluer  than  sapphire  curved 
into  sands  whiter  than  marble  dust.  The  sun  shone 
down  on  the  red- tiled  white  adobes,  on  the  high  garden 
walls  pink  with  Castilian  roses,  as  gaily  as  in  the  old 
Arcadian  time.  But  alas !  it  shone  also  on  cheap 
wooden  cottages  and  shops  which  had  invaded  even 
the  hill  on  trie  right,  where  once  a  few  stately  mansions 
stood  alone. 

The  town  was  very  quiet.  It  was  always  quiet. 
Some  holy  unheard  voice  seemed  ever  saying  "  Hush  !  " 
As  Patience  walked  down  Alvarado  Street  to  the  Custom 
House,  she  saw  a  slender  brown  woman  watering  the 
roses  behind  her  garden  wall.  She  had  been  the  belle 
of  Monterey  in  her  time,  "  La  Tulita,"  and  tradition 
had  it  that  she  still  watered  a  rose-bush  which  General 
Sherman  had  planted. 

On  the  next  block  several  dark  lads  sat  on  a  fence  in 
the  approved  Montereno  style,  smoking  cigaritos.  As 
Patience  passed  they  lifted  their  caps  as  gallantly  as 
ever  caballero  had  done,  although  they  did  not  fling 
them  at  her  feet. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     27 

She  saw  no  one  else  until  she  reached  the  Custom 
House.  Mr.  Foord  stood  on  the  corridor  that  overhung 
the  rocks.  He  was  a  large  round-shouldered  man,  with 
a  benign  face  the  colour  of  aging  marble  and  a  brow  of 
the  old  time  intellectual  type.  The  eyes  behind  his 
spectacles  were  dim  and  kind.  The  lower  part  of  his 
face  was  humorous  and  stern.  He  wore  a  silk  hat,  a 
well-brushed  suit  of  broadcloth,  and  carried  a  gold- 
headed  cane. 

"You 're  going  to  town  !  "  cried  Patience. 

"  I  am,"  he  said  smiling,  "  and  I  suppose  you  are 
going  to  read  your  eyes  out  in  the  library.  Well,  I  '11 
not  be  back  until  to-morrow,  so  you  '11  have  things  all 
your  own  way.  Tell  Lola  to  cook  you  some  dinner. 
I  must  be  off." 

"  Bring  me  a  box  of  candy,"  she  commanded,  as  she 
stood  on  tiptoe  to  give  him  the  little  peck  she  called  a 
kiss.  It  was  her  mark  of  supreme  consideration. 

He  promised,  and  she  went  into  the  library,  a  large 
room  opening  on  the  corridor,  where  many  a  great  ball 
had  been  given  in  the  days  before  and  after  the  Ameri- 
cans came.  A  half  dozen  old-fashioned  bookcases, 
crowded  with  books,  stood  against  the  walls  of  the 
low  room.  The  books  were  bound  in  spotted  calf  or 
faded  cloth,  black  cloth  with  peeling  gilt  letters.  One 
large  case  contained  John  Sparhawk's  library,  and 
Patience  knew  that  it  was  practically  hers.  The  floor 
was  covered  with  a  thick  red  carpet.  A  large  easy- 
chair  was  drawn  before  the  deep  fire-place,  in  which  a 
huge  log  crackled :  it  was  still  winter  within  adobe 
walls. 

"  Altogether,"  thought  the  philosopher  of  fifteen,  as 
she  flung  her  sunbonnet  on  the  floor,  "  I  guess  that  so 


28     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

long  as  I  Ve  got  my  tower  and  the  woods  and  this  room, 
I  'm  not  so  badly  off  as  some." 

She  roamed  about  the  room,  opening  the  doors  of  the 
bookcases  in  turn.  One  case  had  been  filled  with 
books  selected  for  her  especial  use,  but  Mr.  Foord  had 
not  forbidden  her  the  freedom  of  the  others,  being 
wiser  than  many  guardians.  Nevertheless,  certain  books 
were  placed  on  top  shelves,  their  titles  concealed 
beneath  the  moulding  of  the  case,  and  Patience  had 
looked  speculatively  at  them  more  than  once.  To-day 
they  exerted  a  peculiar  fascination.  And  it  was  rarely 
that  she  was  alone  in  the  library. 

She  possessed  an  investigating  and  tentative  mind,  and 
this  forbidden  territory  appealed  eloquently  to  her 
unruly  will.  But  to  get  them  out  was  not  an  easy  task. 
They  were  tightly  packed,  and  the  moulding  was  like 
unto  a  prison  bar.  But  Patience  was  a  person  of 
resource.  She  gave  one  of  the  books  a  smart  thump, 
and  it  slanted  inward.  She  inserted  her  thumb  under 
its  lifted  edge  and  worried  it  out.  It  was  a  small 
volume  bound  in  black,  its  lettering  worn  away.  She 
opened  it  and  glanced  curiously  at  the  titlepage. 
"  Boccaccio's  Decameron "  winked  invitingly.  The 
pages  were  spotted  with  yellow.  The  drawings  looked 
as  if  the  stories  might  be  reasonably  interesting. 

Patience  curled  herself  in  the  deep  window-seat, 
quite  sure  that  she  had  found  a  treasure.  The  book  had 
a  furtive  and  apologetic  air.  "  I  have  grown  old,  at 
least,"  it  seemed  to  say.  "I  am  but  an  elderly  rake, 
and  can  only  mumble  of  the  past." 

She  read  a  few  stories,  then  put  the  book  back  in  its 
place  with  a  resentful  shove.  Being  wholly  without  the 
knowledge  for  which  Eve  pined,  the  stories  were  stupid 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     29 

and  meaningless  to  her.  She  took  down  a  thick  volume 
bound  in  ragged  calf.  On  the  back  was  one  large  word, 
"  Byron."  The  leaves  of  this  book  were  spotted  too, 
but  on  the  leaves  were  poems,  and  she  loved  poetry. 
Even  when  it  was  uninteresting  she  enjoyed  the  rhythm. 
She  returned  to  the  window-seat,  and  child-like,  looked 
at  the  pictures  first.  The  portrait  of  Byron  she  fell  in 
love  with  immediately,  and  knocking  her  composite  off 
its  pedestal,  lifted  that  proud  passionate  face  to  the 
station  of  honour. 

There  was  an  immense-eyed  picture  of  the  Bride  of 
Abydos  which  she  thought  looked  like  Rosita,  and  one 
of  the  Corsair  dashing  in  upon  his  segregated  love  :  — 
"  My  own  Medora,  sure  thy  song  is  sad  I  " 

Francesca  and  Paola  gazed  at  each  other  across  a 
table  :  — 

"  That  day  no  further  leaf  we  did  uncover." 

A  castle  which  looked  older  than  the  book  loomed 
massively  from  the  page  :  — 

"  Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls." 

Never  having  heard  of  Byron,  she  was  unable  to 
enlarge  her  knowledge  at  once  with  his  most  celebrated 
creations ;  but  she  liked  the  looks  of  Conrad  and  Medora, 
and  plunged  into  their  fortunes.  She  read  every  line 
of  the  poem,  and  when  she  had  finished  she  read  it 
over  again.  Then  she  stared  at  the  breakers  booming 
to  the  rocks  on  the  opposite  horn  of  the  crescent,  her 
eyes  expanded  and  filled  with  a  wholly  new  light.  She 
might  be  unlettered  in  woman's  wisdom,  but  the  tran- 
scendent passion,  the  pounding  vitality  of  the  poet, 
carried  straight  to  intuition.  The  insidious  elixir  drifted 
into  the  crystal  stream.  That  incomparable  objectivity 


jo     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

sang  the  song  of  songs  as  distinctly  into  her  brain  as 
had  it  gathered  the  sounds  of  life  for  twenty  years. 
Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes  were  bright.  She 
felt  as  if  she  were  a  musical  instrument  upon  which 
some  divine  unknown  music  were  vibrating;  and  as 
she  was  wont  to  feel  in  the  tower  —  but  with  a  sub- 
stratum of  something  quite  different.  She  was  filled 
with  a  soft  tumult  which  she  did  not  in  the  least  com- 
prehend, and  happy.  She  looked  almost  beautiful. 

After  a  time  she  read  "The  Bride  of  Abydos,"  and 
dreamed  over  that  until  she  discovered  that  she  was 
hungry.  She  had  forgotten  to  order  dinner,  and  went 
to  the  kitchen  to  beg  a  crust. 

Lola,  large,  unwhaleboned,  vibrating  porcinely  with 
every  motion,  her  brown  coarsely  moulded  face  beam- 
ing with  good  nature,  her  little  black  eyes  full  of 
temper  and  kindness,  her  black  hair  in  a  neat  small 
knot,  an  unspotted  brown  and  yellow  calico  garment 
secluding  her  person,  stood  at  a  sink  in  a  kitchen  as 
brilliantly  clean  as  a  varnished  boot.  Even  the  corners 
shone  like  glass,  Patience  often  observed  with  a  sigh. 
The  two  tables  were  scrubbed  daily.  The  stove  was 
black,  the  windows  white.  Not  a  pan  nor  a  dish  save 
those  in  the  sink  was  in  sight. 

Patience  made  a  sudden  dash,  a  leap,  and  alighted 
on  Lola's  back,  encircling  the  yielding  waist  with  her 
supple  legs.  The  woman  emitted  a  hoarse  shriek,  then 
laughed  and  pinched  the  legs.  Patience  plunged  her 
cold  hands  into  the  creases  of  Lola's  neck,  gathering  a 
quantity  into  the  palms.  She  was  unrebuked.  There 
were  a  few  persons  that  loved  Patience,  and  Lola  was 
of  them. 

"  Pobrecita  !  "  she  exclaimed.    "  You  are  cold,  no  ?  " 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    31 

"  Mucho  frizo"  murmured  Patience,  sliding  the  back 
of  her  hands  down  the  mountainous  surface  of  Lola's. 
"And  hungry,  madre  de  dios" 

"Hungry?  You  no  have  the  dinner?  When  you 
coming?  " 

"  Hours  ago,  Lola.  How  cruel  of  you  not  to  call  me  to 
dinner  !  How  mean  and  piggish  to  eat  it  all  yourself!"  . 

"  Ay,  no  call  me  the  names.  How  I  can  know  you 
are  here  si  you  no  tell?  Why  you  no  coming  here 
straight  before  going  to  the  librario?" 

"  I  forgot,  Lola  mia ;  and  then  I  became  —  inter- 
ested. But  do  give  me  something  to  eat." 

"Si"  And  with  Patience  still  on  her  back  Lola 
waddled  to  the  cupboard  and  lifted  down  the  remains 
of  a  corn  cake  rolled  about  olives  and  cheese  and 
peppers. 

"  An  enchilada  /  "  said  Patience.    "  Good." 

Lola  warmed  the  compound,  and  spread  a  napkin 
on  a  corner  of  one  of  the  tables;  then,  suddenly 
unloosening  Patience's  arms  and  legs,  tumbled  her 
headlong  into  a  chair,  laughing  sluggishly  as  she 
ambled  off.  Patience  ate  the  steaming  enchilada  as 
heartily  as  had  Byron  never  been.  In  a  moment  she 
begged  for  a  cup  of  chocolate. 

"  Si,"  said  Lola,  "  I  have  some  scrape  already ;  "  and 
she  brewed  chocolate  in  a  little  earthen  pot,  then  beat 
it  to  froth  with  her  molinillo.  Patience  kicked  her 
heels  together  with  delight,  and  sipped  it  daintily  while 
Lola  stood  by  with  fat  hands  on  fat  hips  in  reflex 
enjoyment. 

"Like  it,  nina  ?  " 

"You  bet."  Then  after  a  moment  she  asked 
dreamily:  "  Lola,  were  you  ever  in  love?" 


32     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Que  !  Sure.  Was  I  not  marry  ?  Poor  my  Pedro  ! 
How  he  lika  the  enchilada  and  the  chocolaty ;  and 
the  lard  cakes  and  the  little  pig  cooking  with  onions. 
And  now  the  worms  eating  him.  Ay,  yi !  "  and  Lola  sat 
herself  upon  a  chair  and  wept. 


VI 

As  Patience  walked  home  through  the  woods  subse- 
quently to  a  long  afternoon  with  Byron,  she  was  hazily 
sensible  that  she  had  stepped  from  one  phase  of  girl- 
hood into  another.  She  had  an  odd  consciousness  of 
gazing  through  a  veil  of  gauze  upon  an  exquisite  but 
unfamiliar  landscape  over  which  was  a  dazzle  of  sun- 
light. She  by  no  means  understood  the  mystery  of  her 
nature  as  yet ;  she  was  technically  too  ignorant ;  but 
instinct  was  awake,  and  she  felt  somewhat  as  when  she 
had  drained  the  poppy  cup  for  long.  She  was  in  that 
transition  state  when  for  the  first  and  last  time  passion 
is  poetry. 

She  arrived  home  in  time  to  get  supper.  Mrs. 
Sparhawk  was  unexpectedly  sober,  and  very  cross. 

"  My  land,  Patience  Sparhawk  !  "  she  exclaimed,  as 
her  daughter  opened  the  door  and  untied  her  sun- 
bonnet,  "  seems  to  me  you  might  help  cook  dinner  in 
vacation  instead  of  being  off  all  day  reading  books  or 
playing  with  that  Spanish  girl." 

"  Seems  to  me,"  said  Patience,  restored  to  her 
practical  self,  "  that  as  you  're  twice  as  big  as  I  am  and 
twice  as  strong,  you  're  pretty  well  able  to  get  it  your- 
self. And  as  it 's  your  fault  there  ain't  any  servant  in 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    33 

this  house,  I  don't   see  why  I  should   make  one   of 
myself  for  you.     Seems  to  me  you  're  fixed  up." 

Mrs.  Sparhawk  blushed,  and  smoothed  her  hair  con- 
sciously. The  hair  had  been  washed,  and  was  decor- 
ated with  a  red  bow.  She  wore  a  garment  of  turkey 
red  calico  with  a  bit  of  cheap  lace  at  the  throat  and 
wrists.  Her  face  was  plastered  with  a  whitewash  much 
in  vogue.  She  looked  handsome,  but  evil,  and  Patience 
stared  at  her  with  an  uneasiness  she  was  not  able  to 
analyse.  She  turned  away  after  a  moment. 

"  I  'd  put  on  an  apron,"  she  remarked  drily.  "  You 
might  get  spots  on  that  gorgeous  window  curtain  dress 
of  yours." 

At  that  moment  the  man  Oscar  entered  the  room. 
He  uttered  a  note  of  admiration  which  made  Patience 
turn  about  sharply.  He  was  gazing  upon  Mrs.  Spar- 
hawk's  enhanced  charms  with  an  expression  which 
Patience  did  not  understand,  but  which  filled  her 
with  sudden  fury. 

"Here!"  she  exclaimed  roughly,  "go  into  the 
dining  room  until  supper  's  ready.  This  kitchen  ain't 
big  enough  for  three." 

The  man  moved  his  eyes  and  regarded  her 
angrily. 

«  Who  's  boss  here?  "  he  demanded. 
"It's  not  your  place  to  ask  questions.  You're 
hired  to  work  outside,  and  when  you  come  into  this 
house  there  's  only  one  place  for  you.  Now  go  into 
the  other  room."  Her  eyes  were  flashing,  and  she 
had  drawn  up  her  shoulders.  The  man  backed  away 
from  her  much  as  dogs  do  when  cats  give  warning. 

"  That  girl  gives  me  a  chill.  I  hate  her,"  he  muttered 
to  his  mistress. 


34     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Mrs.  Sparhawk  gave  a  loud  laugh  which  covered  her 
embarrassment,  and  slapped  him  heartily  on  the  shoul- 
der. "Go  in,  go  in,"  she  said.  "What's  the  use  of 
family  quarrels? " 

The  man  slunk  away,  and  Patience  went  about  her 
work  with  vicious  energy.  She  fried  liver  and  baked 
biscuits  while  her  mother  stirred  the  steaming  cherries 
and  brewed  tea.  When  supper  was  ready  she  filled 
Oscar's  plate  first  and  served  him  last,  not  hating  her- 
self in  the  least  for  her  spite  and  spleen.  After  Mrs. 
Sparhawk  had  taken  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table 
even  her  exuberant  beauty  could  not  dispel  the  frown 
on  the  hired  man's  brow,  until,  to  Patience's  disgust,  she 
divined  the  cause  of  his  surliness,  and  deftly  exchanged 
her  plate  for  his. 


VII 


THAT  night  Patience  did  not  go  to  her  tower,  but 
wandered  over  the  dark  fields,  a  drooping  forlorn 
little  figure  in  the  crawling  shadows.  She  felt  dull 
and  tired  and  disheartened.  By  nine  o'clock  she 
was  asleep.  She  awoke  as  fresh  as  the  morning. 
When  Mr.  Foord  returned  from  San  Francisco  in  the 
afternoon  he  found  her  curled  in  the  easy-chair  by 
his  fire.  She  started  guiltily  as  he  entered,  then 
tossed  her  head  defiantly,  let  Byron  slide  to  the  floor, 
and  went  forward  to  kiss  him. 

As  he  was  about  to  take  the  chair  she  had  occupied 
he  espied  the  fallen  volume.  He  lifted  it  hastily. 

"What  is  this? "  he  demanded. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     35 

Patience  blushed  furiously,  but  set  her  lips  with 
an  expression  he  understood. 

"  It 's  Byron,  and  I  'm  going  to  read  it  all.  I  Ve 
read  a  lot." 

He  shifted  the  book  from  one  hand  to  the  other 
for  a  moment,  his  face  much  perturbed.  Finally  he 
laid  it  on  the  table,  merely  remarking :  "  Sooner  or 
later,  sooner  or  later." 

Patience  offered  him  a  piece  of  the  candy  he  had 
brought  her  j  but  he  preferred  his  pipe,  and  she  perched 
herself  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  and  ate  half  the  con- 
tents of  her  box  without  pause.  She  had  not  yet 
learned  the  subtle  delights  of  the  epicure,  and  to  enjoy 
until  capacity  was  exhausted  was  typical  of  her  enthu- 
siastic temperament.  When  she  could  no  longer  look 
upon  the  candy  without  a  shudder  she  climbed  to  the 
old  gentleman's  shoulder  and  scratched  his  bald  pate 
with  her  ragged  nails.  It  was  her  emphatic  way  of 
expressing  gratitude,  and  beloved  by  Mr.  Foord  above 
pipe  and  enchilada. 

Patience  took  Byron  home  with  her  that  evening, 
Mr.  Foord  merely  shrugging  his  shoulders.  After 
supper  she  read  until  dark,  then  hid  the  book  under 
the  bed  and  went  over  to  the  tower.  She  ran  up 
the  twisted  stair,  and  astonished  the  owl  by  clasping 
him  in  her  arms  and  kissing  him  passionately.  He 
manifested  his  disapproval  by  biting  at  her  shoulder 
fiercely.  She  shrieked  and  boxed  his  ears  smartly. 
He  flapped  his  large  wings  wildly.  A  battle  royal  was 
imminent  in  that  sacred  tower  where  once  the  silver 
bells  had  called  the  holy  men  to  prayer.  But  Patience 
suddenly  broke  into  a  laugh  and  sank  on  her  knees 
by  the  window,  while  Solomon  retreated  to  the  wall, 


3 6     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

and  regarded  her  with  a  round  unwinking  stare,  brood- 
ing over  problems  which  he  did  not  in  the  least 
understand. 

Patience  brooded  also,  but  her  lids  drooped,  and 
she  barely  saw  the  beauty  of  ocean  and  rock  and 
spray.  The  moon  was  not  yet  up,  and  the  half  revealed 
intoning  sea  was  full  of  mystery. 

She  was  conscious  that  her  mood  was  not  quite  what 
it  had  been  during  her  last  visit.  All  of  that  was 
there  —  but  more.  She  felt  higher  above  the  earth 
than  ever  before,  but  more  conscious  of  its  magnetism. 
Something  hummed  along  her  nerves  and  stirred  in 
her  veins.  Her  musings  shaped  to  definite  form, 
inasmuch  as  they  assumed  the  semblance  of  man. 
Inevitably  Byron  was  exhumed  for  duty;  and  if  his 
restless  soul  were  prowling  space  and  Carmel  Valley, 
his  famous  humour,  desuetous  in  Eternity,  must  have 
echoed  in  the  dull  ears  of  roaming  shapes. 

Beside  the  white  face  of  the  child  was  the  solemn 
and  hebraic  visage  of  the  owl.  Some  outworn  chord 
of  Solomon's  youth  may  have  been  stirred  by  his 
friend's  tumultuous  greeting,  for  he  had  stepped,  with 
the  dignity  of  his  years,  to  her  side,  and  stood  regard- 
ing, with  introspective  stare,  the  reflection  of  the  rising 
moon. 

Patience  did  not  see  him.  She  was  gazing  upon 
Byron,  whose  moody  passionate  face  was  distinctly 
visible  among  the  stars.  Alas  !  her  vision  was  suddenly 
obscured  by  a  hideous  black  object.  A  bat  flew 
straight  at  Carmel  tower.  Patience  sprang  to  her  feet, 
tossed  her  skirt  over  her  head,  and  fled  down  the  stair. 
The  owl  stepped  to  the  stair's  head  and  gazed  into  the 
winding  darkness,  his  eyes  full  of  unutterable  nothing. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    37 


VIII 

ON  Monday  school  re-opened,  and  Patience  was  late 
as  usual.  She  loitered  through  the  woods,  conning 
her  lessons,  having  been  too  much  occupied  with  her 
poet  to  give  them  attention  before.  As  she  ascended 
the  steps  of  the  schoolhouse  the  drone  of  the  Lord's 
Prayer  came  through  the  open  window,  and  she  paused 
for  a  moment  on  the  landing,  swinging  her  bag  in  one 
hand  and  her  tin  lunch-pail  in  the  other. 

She  was  not  a  picturesque  figure.  Her  sunbonnet 
was  of  faded  blue  calico  dotted  with  white.  The 
meagre  braid  projecting  beneath  the  cape  was  tied 
with  a  shoe  string.  The  calico  frock  was  faded  and 
mended  and  much  too  short,  although  the  hem  and 
tucks  had  been  let  out.  The  copper-toed  boots  were 
of  a  greyish-green  hue,  and  the  coarse  stockings 
wrinkled  above  them.  The  nails  of  her  pretty  brown 
hands  looked  as  if  they  had  been  sawed  off.  But  the 
eyes  under  the  old  sunbonnet  were  dreamy  and  happy. 
The  brain  behind  was  full  of  new  sensations.  In  the 
sparkling  atmosphere  was  an  electric  thrill.  The  day 
was  as  still  as  only  the  days  of  Monterey  can  be. 
The  pines  and  the  breakers  had  never  intoned  more 
sweetly. 

A  voluminous  A — men !  startled  Patience  from  her 
reverie.  She  went  hastily  within,  hung  her  bonnet 
and  pail  on  a  peg,  and  entered  the  schoolroom,  smiling 
half  deprecatingly  half  confidently,  at  Miss  Galpin. 
The  young  teacher's  stern  nod  did  not  discompose  her. 
As  she  passed  Rosita  she  received  a  friendly  pinch, 


38     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

and  Manuela  looked  up  and  smiled ;  but  while  travers- 
ing the  width  of  the  room  to  her  desk  she  became 
aware  of  something  unfriendly  in  the  atmosphere.  As 
she  took  her  seat  she  glanced  about  and  met  the 
malevolent  eyes  of  a  dozen  turned  heads.  One  girl's 
lip  was  curled ;  another's  brows  were  raised  signifi- 
cantly, as  would  their  owner  query :  "  What  could 
you  expect?  " 

Patience  blushed  until  her  face  glowed  like  one  of 
the  Castilian  roses  on  the  garden  wall  *  opposite  the 
window.  "  They  've  found  out  about  Byron,"  she 
thought.  "  Horrors,  how  they  '11  tease  me  !  " 

School  girls  have  a  traditional  habit  of  "  willing  "  each 
other  to  "  miss "  when  in  aggressive  mood.  To-day 
some  twenty  of  the  girls  appeared  to  have  concerted  to 
will  that  Patience  should  forget  what  little  lore  she  had 
gathered  on  her  way  to  school.  Patience,  always  sen- 
sitive to  impressions,  was  as  taut  as  the  strings  of 
an  ^olian  harp  from  her  experience  of  the  past  week. 
Such  natures  are  responsive  to  the  core  to  the  psycho- 
logical power  of  the  environment,  and  once  or  twice 
this  morning  Patience  felt  as  if  she  must  jump  to  her 
feet  and  scream.  But  even  at  that  early  age  she  di- 
vined that  the  sweetest  revenge  is  success,  and  she 
strove  as  she  had  never  striven  before  to  acquit  herself 
with  credit. 

All  morning  the  silent  battle  went  on.  Miss  Galpin, 
who  was  beloved  of  her  pupils  because  she  was  pretty 
and  dressed  well,  was  a  graduate  of  the  San  Fran- 
cisco High  School,  and  an  excellent  teacher.  Frankly 
as  she  liked  Patience  she  had  never  shown  her  any 
partiality  in  the  schoolroom ;  but  to-day,  noting  the 
antagonism  that  was  brought  to  bear  on  the  girl,  she 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     39 

exerted  all  her  cleverness  to  assist  her  in  such  subtle 
fashion  that  Patience  alone  should  appreciate  her  ef- 
fort. In  consequence,  when  the  morning  session 
closed,  Patience  wore  the  doubtful  laurels  and  the  bad 
blood  was  black. 

As  the  girls  trooped  down  into  the  yard  Rosita  laid 
her  arm  about  Patience  and  endeavoured  to  lead  her 
away.  Manuela  conferred  in  a  low  tone  with  the  foe, 
voice  and  gestures  remonstrant.  But  there  was  blood 
in  the  air,  and  Patience  squared  her  shoulders  and 
awaited  the  onslaught.  Incidentally  she  inspected  her 
nails  and  copper  toes. 

Several  of  the  girls  walked  rapidly  up  to  her.  They 
were  smiling  disagreeably. 

"  Can't  you  keep  her  at  home?  "asked  one  of  them. 

"Think  she  '11  marry  him?"  demanded  another. 

Patience,  completely  taken  aback,  glanced  helplessly 
from  one  to  the  other. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  asked. 

"  Come,  Patita,"  murmured  Rosita,  on  the  verge 
of  tears. 

Manuela  exclaimed :  "  You  are  fiends,  fiends!  "  and 
walked  away. 

"  Mean  ?  Do  you  mean  to  say  she  got  off  without 
you  knowing  it?" 

"Knowing  what?"  A  horrible  presentiment  as- 
sailed Patience.  Her  fingers  jerked  and  her  breath 
came  fast. 

"Why,"  said  Panchita  McPherson,  brutally,  "your 
mother  was  in  here  Saturday  night  with  her  young  man 
and  regularly  turned  the  town  upside  down.  They 
were  thrown  out  of  three  saloons.  Can't  you  keep  her 
at  home?" 


40    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Patience  stared  dully  at  the  girls,  her  dry  lips  parted. 
She  knew  that  they  had  spoken  the  truth.  She  had 
gone  to  bed  early  on  Saturday  night.  Shortly  after- 
ward she  had  heard  the  sound  of  buggy  wheels  and 
Billy's  uncertain  gait.  Many  hours  later  she  had  been 
awakened  by  the  sound  of  her  mother  stumbling  up- 
stairs ;  but  she  had  thought  nothing  of  either  incident 
at  the  time. 

Panchita  continued  relentlessly,  memories  of  many 
class  defeats  rushing  forward  to  lash  her  spleen  :  "  You  '11 
please  understand  after  this  that  we  don't  care  to  have 
you  talk  to  us,  for  we  don't  think  you  're  respectable." 
Whereupon  the  other  girls,  nodding  sarcastically  at 
Patience,  entwined  their  arms  and  walked  away,  led 
by  the  haughty  Miss  McPherson. 

For  a  few  moments  Patience  hardly  realised  how  she 
felt.  She  stood  impassive ;  but  a  cyclone  raged  within. 
All  the  blood  in  her  body  seemed  to  have  rushed  to 
her  head,  to  scorch  her  face  and  pound  in  her  ears. 
She  wondered  why  her  hands  and  feet  were  cold. 

"  Come,  Patita,  don't  mind  them,"  said  Rosita,  put- 
ting her  arm  round  her  comrade.  "  The  mean  hateful 
nasty — pigs!"  Never  before  had  the  indolent  little 
Californian  been  so  vehement;  but  Patience  slipped 
from  her  hold,  and  running  through  a  gate  at  the  back 
of  the  yard  crouched  down  on  a  box.  Rosita's  words 
had  broken  the  spell.  She  was  filled  with  a  vol- 
cano of  hate.  She  hated  the  girls,  she  hated  Monte- 
rey, she  hated  life;  but  above  all  she  hated  her 
mother. 

After  a  time  all  the  hate  in  her  concentrated  on  the 
woman  who  had  made  her  young  life  so  bitter.  She 
had  never  liked  her,  but  not  until  the  dreadful  mo- 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     41 

merits  just  past  had  she  realised  the  full  measure  of  he: 
inheritance.  The  innuendoes  she  had  not  understood, 
but  it  was  enough  to  know  that  her  mother  had  dis- 
graced her  publicly  and  insulted  her  father's  memory. 
Her  schoolmates  she  dismissed  from  her  mind  with  a 
scornful  jerk  of  the  shoulders.  She  had  beaten  them 
too  easily  and  often  in  the  schoolroom  not  to  despise 
them  consummately.  They  could  prick  but  not  stab 
her. 

The  bell  rang ;  but  she  had  an  account  to  settle,  and 
bonnetless  she  started  for  home. 

Mrs.  Sparhawk  was  sitting  on  the  porch  reading  a 
novel  when  Patience  walked  up  to  her,  snatched  the 
book  from  her  hand,  and  flung  it  into  a  rose-tree. 
The  woman  was  sober,  and  quailed  as  she  met  her 
daughter's  eyes.  Patience  had  walked  rapidly  under 
a  hot  sun.  Her  face  was  scarlet,  and  she  was  trem- 
bling. 

"  I  hate  you  !  "  she  sobbed.  "  I  hate  you  !  It 
does  n't  do  any  good  to  tell  you  so,  but  it  does  me 
good  to  say  it."  • 

The  girl  looked  the  incarnation  of  evil  passions. 
She  was  elemental  Hate,  a  young  Cain. 

"  I  wish  you  were  dead,"  she  continued.  "  You  've 
ruined  every  bit  of  my  life." 

"Why —  what  —  what  —  "  mumbled  the  woman. 
But  the  colour  was  coming  to  her  face,  and  her  eyes 
were  beginning  to  glitter  unpleasantly. 

"  You  know  well  enough  what.  You  were  in  town 
drunk  on  Saturday  night,  and  were  in  saloons  with  a 
farm  hand.  To  make  a  brute  of  yourself  was  bad 
enough  —  but  to  go  about  with  a  common  man  !  Are 
you  going  to  marry  him?  " 


42    Patience  Spar  hawk  and  Her  Times 

Mrs.  Sparhawk  laughed.     "  Well,  I  guess  not." 

Patience  drew  a  quick  breath  of  relief.  "Well, 
that 's  what  they  're  saying  —  that  you  're  going  to 
marry  him  —  a  man  that  can't  read  nor  write.  Now 
look  here,  I  want  one  thing  understood  —  unless  you 
.  swear  to  me  you'll  not  set  foot  in  that  town  again 
I  '11  have  you  put  in  the  Home  of  the  Inebriates  — 
There  !  I  '11  not  be  disgraced  again ;  I  '11  do  it." 

Mrs.  Sparhawk  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  face  blazing 
with  rage.  "You  will,  will  you?"  she  cried.  She 
caught  the  girl  by  the  shoulders,  and  shaking  her  vio- 
lently, boxed  first  one  ear,  then  the  other,  with  her  strong 
rough  hands.  For  an  instant  Patience  was  stunned, 
then  the  blood  boiled  back  to  her  brain.  She  screamed 
harshly,  and  springing  at  her  mother  clutched  her  about 
the  throat.  The  lust  to  kill  possessed  her.  A  red  cur- 
tain blotted  even  the  hated  face  from  sight.  Instinc- 
tively she  tripped  her  mother  and  went  down  on  top 
of  her.  The  crash  of  the  body  brought  two  men  to  the 
rescue,  and  Patience  was  dragged  off  and  flung  aside. 

"My  land!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  men,  his  face 
white  with  horror.  "  Was  you  going  to  kill  your  ma?  " 

"Yes,  that  she  was,"  spluttered  Mrs.  Sparhawk, 
sitting  up  and  pulling  vaguely  at  the  loose  flesh  of 
her  throat.  "  She  'd  have  murdered  me  in  another 
minute." 

Patience  by  this  time  was  white  and  limp.  She 
crawled  upstairs  to  her  room  and  locked  the  door. 
She  sank  on  the  floor  and  thought  on  herself  with 
horror. 

"I  never  knew,"  she  reiterated,*  "that  I  was  so  bad. 
Why,  I  'm  fifteen,  and  I  never  wanted  to  kill  even  a  bird 
before.  I  would  n't  learn  to  shoot.  I  'd  never  drown 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    43 

a  kitten.  When  the  Chinaman  stuck  a  red-hot  poker 
through  the  bars  of  the  trap  and  burnt  ridges  in  the 
live  rat  I  screamed  and  screamed.  And  now  I've 
nearly  killed  my  mother,  and  wanted  to.  Who,  who 
would  have  thought  it?  " 

When  she  was  wearied  with  the  futile  effort  to  solve 
the  new  problem,  she  became  suddenly  conscious  that 
she  felt  no  repentance,  no  remorse.  She  was  horrified 
at  the  sight  of  the  black  veins  in  her  soul  j  but  she  felt 
a  certain  satisfaction  at  having  unbottled  the  wrath  that 
consumed  her,  at  having  given  her  mother  the  physical 
equivalent  of  her  own  mental  agony.  Over  this  last 
cognisance  of  her  capacity  for  sin  she  sighed  and  shook 
her  head. 

"  I  may  as  well  give  myself  up,"  she  thought  with 
young  philosophy.  "  I  am  what  I  am,  and  I  suppose 
I  '11  do  what  I  'm  going  to  do." 

She  went  downstairs  and  out  of  the  house.  She 
passed  a  group  of  men ;  they  stared  at  her  in  horror. 
Then  another  little  seed  from  the  vast  garden  of  human 
nature  shot  up  to  flower  in  Patience's  puzzled  brain. 
She  lifted  her  head  with  an  odd  feeling  of  elation  :  she 
was  the  sensation  of  the  hour. 

She  went  out  on  Point  Lobos  and  listened  to  the 
hungry  roar  of  the  waves,  watched  the  tossing  spray. 
Nature  took  her  to  her  heart  as  ever,  and  when  the 
day  was  done  she  was  normal  once  more.  She  returned 
to  the  house  and  helped  to  get  supper,  although  she 
refused  to  speak  to  her  equally  sullen  parent. 


44     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 


IX 


IT  was  several  days  before  the  story  reached  Mon- 
terey. When  it  did,  the  girls  treated  Patience  to  in- 
vective and  contumely,  but  delivered  their  remarks  at 
long  range.  The  mother  of  Manuela  said  peremptorily 
that  Patience  Sparhawk  should  never  darken  the  doors 
of  the  Peralta  mansion  again,  and  even  Mrs.  Thrailkill 
told  the  weeping  Rosita  that  the  intimacy  must  end. 

Miss  Galpin  was  horrified.  When  school  was  over 
she  took  Patience  firmly  by  the  hand  and  led  her  up 
the  hill  to  her  boarding-place,  the  widow  Thrailkill's 
ancestral  home.  The  long  low  adobe  house  was  trav- 
ersed from  end  to  end  by  a  pillared  corridor.  It  was 
whitewashed  every  year,  and  its  red  tiles  were  renewed 
at  intervals,  but  otherwise  the  march  of  civilisation  had 
passed  it  by.  Mrs.  Thrailkill,  large  and  brown,  with  a 
wart  between  her  kind  black  eyes,  and  a  handsome 
beard,  was  rocking  herself  on  the  corridor.  When  she 
recognised  the  teacher's  companion  she  arose  with  great 
dignity  and  swung  herself  into  the  house. 

Miss  Galpin  led  Patience  down  the  corridor  to  a 
room  at  the  end,  and  motioned  her  to  a  chair.  Several 
magazines  lay  on  a  table,  and  Patience  reached  her 
hand  to  them  involuntarily ;  but  Miss  Galpin  took  the 
hand  and  drew  the  girl  toward  her.  The  young 
teacher's  brown  eyes  wore  a  very  puzzled  expression. 
Even  her  carefully  regulated  bang  had  been  pushed  up- 
ward with  a  sudden  dash  of  the  hand.  She  was  only 
twenty-two,  and  her  experience  of  human  nature  was 
limited.  Her  ideas  of  life  were  accumulated  largely 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     45 

from  the  novels  of  Mr.  Howells  and  Mr.  James,  whom 
she  revered ;  and  neither  of  these  gentlemen  photo- 
graphed such  characters  as  Patience.  It  had  probably 
never  occurred  to  them  that  Patiences  existed.  She 
experienced  a  sudden  thrill  of  superiority,  then  craved 
pardon  of  her  idols. 

"  Patience,  dear,"  she  said  gently,  "  is  this  terrible 
story  true?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Patience,  standing  passively  at 
Miss  Galpin's  knee. 

"You  actually  tried  to  kill  your  mother? " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

Miss  Galpin  gasped.  She  waited  a  moment  for  a 
torrent  of  excuse  and  explanation;  but  Patience  was 
mute. 

"  And  you  are  not  sorry?  "  she  faltered. 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"Oh,  Patience!" 

"  I  'm  sorry  you  feel  so  badly,  ma'am.  Please  don't 
cry,"  for  the  estimable  young  woman  was  in  tears,  and 
mentally  reviling  her  preceptors. 

"How  can  I  help  feeling  terribly,  Patience?  You 
break  my  heart." 

"  I  'm  sorry,  dear  Miss  Galpin." 

"Patience,  don't   you   love   God?" 

"No,  ma'am,  not  particularly.  Leastways,  I've 
never  thought  much  about  it." 

"  You  little  heathen  !  " 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  'm  not.  My  father  was  very  reli- 
gious. But  please  don't  talk  religion  to  me." 

"  Patience,  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you.  I 
am  in  despair.  You  're  not  a  bad  girl.  You  give  me 
little  trouble,  and  I  've  always  said  that  you  had  finer 


46      Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

impulses  than  any  girl  I  Ve  ever  known,  and  the  best 
brain.  You  ought  to  realise  better  than  any  girl  of 
your  age  the  difference  between  right  and  wrong.  And 
yet  you  have  done  what  not  another  girl  in  the  school 
would  do,  inferior  as  they  are  —  " 

"How  do  you  know,  ma'am?  I  never  thought  I 
would.  Neither  did  you  think  I  would.  You  can't 
tell  what  you  '11  do  till  you  do  it." 

Miss  Galpin  was  distracted.     She  resumed  hurriedly : 

"  I  want  you  to  be  a  good  woman,  Patience,  —  a  good 
as  well  as  a  clever  woman.  And  how  can  you  be  good 
if  you  don't  love  God?  " 

"  Are  all  people  good  the  same  way?  " 

"  Well,  it  all  comes  to  the  same  thing  in  the  end." 
Miss  Galpin  blessed  the  evolution  of  verbiage. 

"  Are  all  religious  people  good?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"These  girls  are  religious,  especially  the  Spanish 
ones,  and  they  Ve  behaved  to  me  like  devils.  So  have 
their  mothers,  and  some  of  them  go  to  five  o'clock 
mass." 

"  Girls  are  undisciplined,  and  mothers  often  have  a 
mistaken  sense  of  duty." 

"  You  are  good,  and  Mr.  Foord  is  good,"  pursued 
the  terrible  child.  "  But  you  'd  be  just  as  good  if  you 
were  n't  religious.  It 's  born  in  you,  and  you  're  refined 
and  kind-hearted.  Those  people  are  just  naturally  vul- 
gar, and  religion  won't  make  them  any  better." 

Miss  Galpin  drew  the  girl  suddenly  to  her  lap  and 
kissed  her.  "  I  'm  terribly  sorry  for  you,  dear,"  she 
said.  "  I  wish  I  understood  you  better,  and  could  help 
you,  but  I  don't.  I  never  knew  any  one  in  the  least 
like  you.  I  worry  so  about  your  future.  People  that 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     47 

are  not  like  other  people  don't  get  along  nicely  in  this 
world.  And  you  have  such  impulses  !  But  I  love  you, 
Patience,  and  I  '11  always  be  your  friend.  Will  you  re- 
member this?  " 

Patience  was  undemonstrative,  but  she  kissed  Miss 
Galpin  warmly  and  arranged  her  bang. 

"Now,  let's  talk  about  something  else,"  she  said. 
"  Are  you  going  to  get  up  those  private  theatricals  for 
the  night  that  school  closes  ?" 

Miss  Galpin  sighed  and  gave  up  the  engagement. 
"  Yes,"  she  said.  Then,  hesitatingly :  "  Do  you  wish 
to  take  part?" 

"  No,  of  course  I  don't.  I  '11  have  nothing  more  to 
do  with  those  girls  than  I  can  help.  You  can  bet  your 
life  on  that.  But  I  can  help  drill  Rosita.  What's  the 
play?" 

"  I  '11  read  it  to  you."  Miss  Galpin  took  a  pamphlet 
from  a  drawer  and  read  aloud  the  average  amateur  con- 
coction. Rosita  was  to  take  the  part  of  an  indolent 
girl  with  the  habit  of  arousing  herself  unexpectedly. 
In  one  act  she  would  have  to  dash  to  the  front  of  the 
stage  and  dance  a  parlour  breakdown. 

"  I  am  afraid  Rosita  cannot  act,"  said  Miss  Galpin, 
in  conclusion,  "  but  she  is  so  pretty  I  could  n't  leave 
her  out." 

"  Rosita  can  act,"  said  Patience,  emphatically.  "  I  've 
seen  her  imitate  every  actress  that  has  been  here,  and 
take  off  pretty  nearly  every  crank  in  Monterey.  And 
Mrs.  Thrailkill  can  teach  her  one  of  the  old  Californian 
dances — and  a  song.  Rosita  has  a  lovely  voice, 
almost  as  pretty  as  a  lark's." 

"  Really?  Well,  I  '11  talk  to  Mrs.  Thrailkill  and  per- 
suade her  to  forgive  you,  and  then  you  can  come  here 


48      Patience  Spar  hawk  and  Her  Times 

every  afternoon  and  drill  Rosita.  And  now  will  you 
promise  me  to  be  a  good  little  girl?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am  —  leastways  I  '11  try.  Good-bye,"  and 
Patience  gave  her  a  little  peck,  seized  her  sunbonnet, 
and  went  hurriedly  out. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  thought  as  she  sauntered  down  the 
hill,  "  1  'd  better  go  and  have  it  out  with  Mr.  Foord. 
It 's  got  to  come,  and  the  sooner  it 's  over  the  better. 
Poor  man,  I  '11  make  it  as  easy  for  him  as  I  can.  It  '11 
be  harder  on  him  than  on  me,  for  I  'm  used  to  it 
now." 

The  old  gentleman  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
corridor  as  she  turned  the  corner  of  the  custom  house. 
He  looked  very  yellow  and  feeble,  and  supported  him- 
self with  a  stick. 

"  Oh,  Patience  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

For  the  first  time  Patience  felt  inclined  to  cry,  but 
her  aversion  to  display  feeling  controlled  her.  She 
merely  approached  and  stood  before  him,  swinging  her 
sunbonnet. 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  about  it,"  he  said  hastily.  "  I 
have  something  else  to  say  to  you.  Sit  down." 

They  sat  down  side  by  side  on  a  bench. 

"  You  know,"  the  old  gentleman  continued,  "  I  have 
a  half-sister  in  the  east  —  Harriet  Tremont,  her  name 
is  —  in  Mariaville-on- Hudson,  New  York.  She  is  the 
best  woman  in  the  world,  the  most  sinless  creature  I 
ever  knew,  yet  full  of  human  nature  and  never  dull. 
She  is  very  religious,  has  given  up  her  life  to  doing 
good,  and  has  some  eccentric  notions  of  her  own.  She 
writes  me  dutifully  twice  a  year,  although  we  have  not 
met  for  thirty,  and  in  her  last  letter  she  told  me  she 
intended  to  adopt  a  child,  rescue  a  soul  as  she  called  it, 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     49 

and  furthermore  that  she  should  adopt  the  child  of  the 
most  worthless  parents  she  could  discover  in  her  work 
among  the  worthless.  Since  —  lately  —  I  have  been 
thinking  strongly  of  sending  you  to  her.  You  must  get 
away  from  here.  You  must  have  a  chance  in  life.  If 
you  remain  here1  you  will  grow  up  bitter  and  hard,  and 
the  result  with  your  brain  and  temperament  may  be 
terrible.  You  are  capable  of  becoming  a  very  bad  or 
a  very  good  woman.  You  are  still  young  —  but  there 
is  no  time  to  lose.  Should  you  care  to  go?  " 

"  Of  course  I  should,"  cried  Patience,  enchanted 
with  the  idea  of  an  excursion  into  unknown  worlds. 
Then  her  face  fell.  "But  I  shouldn't  like  to  be 
adopted.  That  is  too  much  like  charity." 

"  Is  the  ranch  entirely  mortgaged  ?  " 

Patience  nodded. 

"  Well,  let  us  look  at  it  as  a  business  proposition. 
You  will  be  little  expense  to  her —  she  is  fairly  well  off; 
and  one  more  in  the  household  makes  no  appreciable 
difference.  You  will  attend  the  public  schools  with  the 
view  to  become  a  teacher,  and  when  you  are  earning 
a  salary  you  can  repay  her  for  what  little  outlay  she 
may  have  made.  Do  you  see?  " 

"  Yes.    I  don't  mind  if  you  look  at  it  that  way." 

"  I  '11  see  your  mother  in  a  day  or  two.  You  don't 
think  she  '11  object,  do  you?" 

"  Object?     What  has  she  got  to  say  about  it?  " 

"A  great  deal,  unfortunately.  She  is  your  legal 
guardian.  But  she  does  n't  love  you,  and  I  think  can 
be  persuaded.  I  shall  miss  you,  my  dear.  What  shall 
I  do  without  my  bright  little  girl?  " 

Patience  nestled  up  to  him,  and  the  two  strangely 
assorted  companions  remained  silent  for  a  time  watch- 

4 


50     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

ing  the  seagulls  sweep  over  the  blue  bay.  Then  Mr. 
Foord  drifted  naturally  into  the  past,  and  Patience  grew 
romantic  once  more. 


x 


THAT  night  Patience  felt  no  inclination  for  either  bed 
or  tower.  She  wandered  over  the  field,  entered  the 
pine  forest,  and  walked  to  the  coast.  The  tall  straight 
trees  grew  close  together;  their  aisles  were  very 
gloomy.  From  the  ground  arose  the  ominous  voices 
of  the  night,  and  the  wind  in  the  treetops  moaned 
heavily.  But  Patience  was  not  afraid.  She  revelled  in 
the  vast  dark  silence,  and  felt  that  the  world  was  all  her 
own. 

As  she  left  the  forest  she  saw  great  clouds  of  spray 
tossed  high  into  the  starry  dark,  heard  the  ocean  rush 
at  the  outlying  rocks,  breaking  into  mist  or  leaping  to 
the  shore.  The  sea  lions  were  talking  loudly ;  the  sea- 
gulls, huddled  on  the  high  points  of  the  coast,  scolded 
hoarsely. 

On  the  edge  of  the  forest  was  a  cabin.  Patience 
walked  toward  it.  She  knew  the  old  man  that  lived 
there.  He  was  evidently  awake,  for  the  open  window 
was  yellow  with  light.  As  she  passed  it  on  her  way  to 
the  door  she  glanced  within.  Her  skin  turned  cold ; 
her  hair  stiffened.  A  sheeted  corpse  lay  on  the  bed. 
Candles  burned  at  head  and  foot.  Patience,  brave 
as  she  was,  abjectly  feared  the  corpse.  She  believed 
that  she  could  survive  a  ghost,  but  she  knew  that  if  shut 
up  with  a  dead  body  for  ten  minutes  she  should  go 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     51 

mad.     To-night  she  would  have  fled  shrieking  were  it 
not  that  the  room  had  a  living  occupant. 

In  a  chair  beside  the  bed  sat  a  man  gazing  at  the 
floor,  his  chin  dropped  to  his  chest.  He  wore  rough 
clothes,  but  they  were  the  affectations  of  the  gentleman, 
not  the  garb  of  the  dead  man  and  his  friends.  Nor 
had  Patience  ever  seen  so  noble  a  head.  The  profile 
was  beautiful,  the  expression  mild  and  intellectual,  and 
most  melancholy. 

Patience  forgot  her  terror  as  she  wondered  who  the 
stranger  could  be ;  but  in  a  moment  it  was  renewed 
tenfold.  Down  the  ocean  road  from  Monterey  came 
a  wild  hideous  yell.  The  man  by  the  corpse  raised  his 
head  apprehensively,  rose  as  if  to  flee,  then  sank 
wearily  to  his  chair  again.  The  clatter  of  hoofs  on  the 
hard  road  mounted  above  the  thunder  of  the  waves. 
Patience  staring  into  the  dark  suddenly  saw  the  leaping 
fire  of  torches,  and  a  moment  later  tall  figures  riding 
recklessly.  The  yelling  was  incessant  and  demoniac. 

"  The  man  murdered  Jim  and  they  're  lynchers," 
thought  Patience.  She  glanced  about  wildly.  A  small 
tree  stood  near.  She  scampered  up  the  trunk  like 
a  squirrel,  and  hid  in  the  branches.  None  too  soon. 
In  another  moment  those  terrible  figures  were  scream- 
ing and  gesticulating  before  the  hut. 

The  smoky  flames  revealed  an  extraordinary  sight  to 
Patience's  distended  eyes.  These  men  were  bearded 
like  the  men  of  modern  civilisation,  even  their  hair  was 
properly  cut ;  but  they  wore  the  garments  of  Greece 
and  Japan,  flowing  robes  of  white  and  red  ;  one  dark 
sinister-looking  being  upheld  a  glittering  helmet. 

Patience  rubbed  her  eyes.  Did  she  dream  over  her 
Byron?  But  no  mortal,  none  but  the  sheeted  dead, 


52     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

could  have  slept  and  dreamed  in  that  infernal  clamour. 
Only  the  man  by  the  bed  sat  immobile.  He  did  not 
raise  his  head.  Out  of  the  pandemonium  of  sound 
Patience  at  last  distinguished  one  word :  "  Charley  ! 
Charley  !  "  If  "  Charley  "  were  the  man  within  the 
hut  he  gave  no  sign ;  nor  when  they  threw  back  their 
heads  and  as  from  one  throat  gave  forth  a  rattling 
volume  of  ribald  laughter. 

Suddenly  Patience,  who,  seeing  no  rope,  began  to 
recover  her  courage,  noticed  that  one  of  the  men  had 
ridden  beneath  her  tree,  taking  no  part  in  this  singular 
drama.  Once  he  turned  his  head,  and  an  aquiline 
profile,  fine  and  strong,  with  black  hair  falling  above 
it,  was  sharply  revealed  against  the  red  glare.  Im- 
pulsively Patience  leaned  down  and  touched  his 
shoulder.  He  looked  up  with  a  start,  and  saw  a  small 
white  face  among  the  leaves. 

"What  on  earth  is  this?"  he  asked.  "Is  it  a 
child  ?  "  His  voice  was  rich  and  deep,  with  a  gentle 
hint  of  brogue. 

"  What  are  they?  "  asked  Patience.  "  Are  they  real 
devils,  or  only  men  ?  And  are  they  going  to  kill  him  ?  " 

The  man  laughed.  "  I  certainly  should  ask  the  same 
question  if  I  had  not  happened  to  come  with  them. 
Oh,  they  won't  do  any  murder,  unless  they  happen  to 
frighten  some  one  to  death.  They  're  members  of  the 
Bohemian  Club  of  San  Francisco  — newspaper  men  and 
artists  —  who  are  down  here  on  a  lark." 

"  Who  's  the  man  in  there  by  him,  and  why  do  they 
yell  at  him  so?  " 

"Oh,  he  is  a  solitary  spirit,  a  man  of  genius.  He 
got  tired  of  them  and  gave  them  the  slip  to-night. 
This  is  revenge." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     53 

"  They  have  the  Estrada  house  on  Alvarado  Street," 
said  Patience.  "  I  heard  they  were  here."  Then  she 
noticed  that  her  companion  wore  the  common  garb  of 
American  civilisation.  "  Why  are  n't  you  rigged  up, 
too?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  hardly  one  of  them.  I  'm  only  an  Eastern 
man  — a  New  Yorker  —  and  am  staying  at  Del  Monte  for 
a  day  or  two.  I  rode  over  to  see  them  this  afternoon,  and 
they  insisted  upon  my  staying  for  dinner.  What  on  earth 
are  you  doing  here  by  yourself  at  this  time  of  night?" 

Patience  explained.  Then  she  added  wistfully,  "I 
shall  be  frightened  to  death  going  home  through  those 
woods  alone.  I  '11  imagine  that  that  corpse  and  those 
dreadful-looking  men  are  behind  me  at  every  step." 

"  Just  drop  onto  my  horse  and  I  '11  take  you  home. 
I  'm  pretty  tired  of  all  this."  He  raised  his  arms  and 
lifted  her  down,  placing  her  in  front  of  him.  "  Lucky 
I  had  an  English  saddle,"  he  said,  and  as  he  bent  his 
head  Patience  could  see  that  he  was  smiling.  "  Oh  !  " 
he  added  abruptly,  "  I  have  seen  you  before.  Now  — 
tell  me  where  to  go." 

Patience  directed  him,  and  they  cantered  away  un- 
observed. 

"Where  did  you  see  me?  "she  asked,  "  and  how 
odd  that  you  should  remember  me  !  " 

"You  have  wonderful  eyes.  Although  I  'm  an  Irish- 
man I  won't  go  so  far  as  to  say  they  are  pretty,  but 
they  look  as  if  they  had  been  born  to  see  so  much.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  forget  them.  Upon  me  soul  you 
are  actually  trembling.  Did  you  never  have  a  compli- 
ment be  fore?"  ~ft" 

"  Never  !  And  I  guess  I  '11  remember  it  longer  than 
you  remember  my  eyes.  Where  did  you  see  me?" 


54     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  I  was  standing  at  the  window  of  the  house  in  Alva- 
rado  Street  when  you  came  along  from  school  with  a 
dozen  or  more  of  the  girls.  You  all  stopped  to  gaze  at 
a  passing  circus  troupe,  and  —  I  noticed  you  first  because 
you  stood  a  little  apart  from  the  others." 

"  I  usually  do,"  said  Patience,  drily. 

He  did  not  add  that,  attracted  by  the  eagerness  of 
her  gaze  and  her  rapid  changes  of  expression,  he  had 
asked  who  she  was,  and  that  a  Montereno  present  had 
related  the  family  history  and  her  own  notable  per- 
formances in  no  measured  terms.  "  She 's  got  bad 
blood  in  her  and  the  temper  of  Old  Nick  himself. 
She'll  come  to  no  good,  homely  as  she  is,"  the  man 
had  concluded.  "  Curious  enough,  the  boys  all  like 
her  and  would  spark  her  if  they  got  a  show ;  but  she  's 
hell-set  on  gettin'  an  education  at  present  and  does  n't 
notice  them  much." 

Patience  made  him  talk  on  for  the  pleasure  of  hear- 
ing his  voice.  "  Are  you  a  real  Irishman?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,  I  've  been  an  American  for  twenty  years,  but 
there 's  a  good  deal  of  Irish  left  in  me  yet,  especially  in 
me  tongue." 

"  I  'd  keep  it,  if  I  were  you.  It 's  nicer  even  than 
the  Spanish.  Do  you  think  our  voices  are  horrid  ?  " 

"  I  think  that  if  you  'd  pitch  yours  a  little  lower  it 
would  be  an  improvement,"  he  said,  smiling.  And 
Patience  registered  a  vow  which  she  kept.  In  after 
years  when  great  changes  had  come  upon  her,  her  voice 
was  envied  and  emulated. 

As  they  left  the  forest  and  entered  Carmel  Valley 
Patience  pointed  to  her  home,  then  suddenly  took  the 
reins  from  his  hand  and  directed  the  horse  toward  the 
Mission.  The  waning  moon  hung  over  the  ocean,  and 
the  Mission  stood  out  boldly. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times      55 

"  Come  up  to  my  tower,"  said  Patience ;  "  the  view 
is  something  /  That  will  be  your  reward.  I  never  took 
any  one  there  before." 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  "  I  may  as  well  make  a  night  of 
it."  He  tethered  his  horse  and  followed  her  up  the 
spiral  stair. 

"  Solomon  is  not  here,"  she  said  regretfully.  "  He  's 
out  foraging.  Now  !  " 

The  young  man  walked  to  the  window  and  inspected 
the  view.  Patience  regarded  him  with  rapt  admiration. 
He  was  tall  and  strong  and  well  dressed.  She  had 
never  dreamed  that  anything  romantic  could  really 
happen  to  her ;  and  as  she  was  sure  that  it  would  be  her 
last  experience  as  well  as  her  first,  she  suddenly  felt 
depressed  and  miserable,  her  imagination  leaping  to 
the  finish. 

He  turned  and  met  her  eyes.  "  What  are  you  think- 
ing of?  "  he  asked. 

But  Patience  was  too  shy  to  tell  him,  and  asked  him 
if  he  liked  the  view. 

"  It 's  a  jolly  view  and  no  mistake.  You  're  not  a 
happy  child,  are  you?"  he  added,  abruptly.  With  the 
enthusiasm  and  spontaneous  kindness  of  his  Irish  blood 
he  had  conceived  the  idea  of  dropping  a  seed  in  this 
plastic  soil,  and  was  feeling  his  way  toward  the  right 
spot. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  am,"  said  Patience,  haughtily. 
"  I  suppose  some  of  those  people  told  you  things." 

"  Well,  they  did,  that 's  a  fact.  But  you  must  n't  get 
angry  with  me,  please,  for  upon  me  word  I  like  you 
better  than  any  one  I  Ve  met  in  California." 

"Don't  you  live  here?" 

"  My  home  is  in  New  York,  and  I  return  to-morrow." 


56     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Oh  !     Well,  I  don't  see  how  I  should  interest  you." 

"  You  do,  though,  and  that 's  all  there  is  to  it.  I  'in 
neither  as  cautious  as  an  Englishman  nor  as  practical 
as  an  American  —  though  God  rest  the  two  of  them  ;  I 
mean  nothing  to  their  detriment.  But  there  's  a  force 
in  you,  and  force  does  n't  go  to  waste,  although  it 's 
more  often  than  not  misdirected.  I  can  feel  yours 
myself;  and  I'm  told  that  you  're  the  cleverest  girl  in 
the  town  as  well  as  the  proudest  and  most  ambitious. 
Now,  what  do  you  intend  to  do  with  yourself?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  '11  be  a  teacher ;  and  if  Mrs.  Sparhawk 
has  no  objections  I  may  go  East  soon  and  live  with  a 
religious  old  lady." 

"  Well,  that 's  not  so  bad ;  only  I  doubt  if  that  life 
will  suit  you  any  better  than  this."  He  put  his  finger 
under  her  chin  and  turned  her  face  to  the  light.  "  I 
am  a  lawyer,  you  know,"  he  added,  "  and  features  and 
lines  and  curves  mean  a  good  deal  to  me.  You  've 
got  a  good  will,  begad,  and  like  all  first-class  American 
women,  you  '11  keep  your  head  up  until  you  drop.  And 
you  have  all  her  faculty  of  beginning  life  over  again 
several  times,  if  necessary.  You  '11  never  rust  nor  mould, 
nor  write  polemical  novels  if  things  don't  go  your  way. 
You  've  got  a  good  strong  brain  behind  those  eyes,  and 
although  you  '11  make  mistakes  of  various  sorts,  you  '11 
kick  them  behind  you  when  you  're  done  with  them, 
begin  over  and  be  none  the  worse.  Remember  that 
no  mistake  is  irrevocable ;  that  there  are  as  many 
to-morrows  as  yesterdays ;  that  only  the  incapable  has 
a  past.  It  is  all  a  matter  of  will  as  far  as  the  world  is 
concerned,  and  ideals  as  far  as  your  own  soul  goes. 
No  matter  how  often  circumstances  and  your  own 
weakness  compel  you  to  let  go  your  own  private  ideals, 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     57 

deliberately  put  them  back  on  their  pedestal  the  moment 
you  have  recovered  balance,  and  make  for  their  attain- 
ment as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Then  you  '11  never 
acquire  an  aged  soul  and  never  lose  your  grip.  Can 
you  remember  all  that?  " 

"  You  bet  I  can." 

He  laughed.  "  I  believe  you.  I  might  add  :  Don't 
love  the  wrong  man,  but  I  '11  not  throw  away  good 
advice.  You'll  not  be  wholly  guided  by  reason  in 
those  matters.  I  will  merely  say,  Rub  the  first  experi- 
ence in  hard  and  let  a  long  while  elapse  before  your 
second,  or  it  will  be  the  greater  mistake  of  the  two. 
Your  reactions  will  be  very  violent,  I  should  say.  Well, 
I  '11  be  going  now." 

"  I  'd  rather  you  'd  stay  and  talk." 

"  Would  you  ?  Well,  being  a  lawyer,  I  know  where 
to  stop.  Besides,  I  '11  have  all  those  fellows  after  me  if 
I  stay  too  long.  We  Ml  doubtless  meet  again.  The 
world  is  small  these  days." 

Patience  followed  him  reluctantly  down  the  stair,  and 
he  walked  beside  her  across  the  valley,  leading  his 
horse.  When  they  reached  the  farmhouse  he  shook 
hands  with  her  warmly,  wished  her  good  luck,  and  rode 
away.  She  ran  up  to  her  room,  and,  lighting  a  candle, 
transcribed  his  words  into  an  old  copybook. 


-•>;  xi 

Miss  GALPIN  expostulated  with  Mrs.  Thrailkill  to  such 
effect  that  Patience  spent  two  hours  each  afternoon  in 
the  family  garret  rehearsing  Rosita  while  the  astonished 


58     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

rats  took  refuge  in  the  chimney.  Patience  could  not 
act,  but  she  had  dramatic  appreciation  and  an  intel- 
lectual conception  of  any  part  not  beyond  her  years. 
Rosita  was  not  intellectual,  but,  as  Patience  had  dis- 
cerned, the  spirit  of  Thalia  was  in  her.  She  quickly 
became  enamoured  of  her  unsuspected  resources  and 
at  the  prospect  of  exhibiting  herself  on  a  platform.  Not 
only  did  she  rouse  herself  to  something  like  exertion, 
but  she  faithfully  followed  the  instructions  of  her  stren- 
uous teacher  and  discovered  a  talent  for  posing  and 
little  tricks  of  manner  all  her  own.  Her  mother  taught 
her  the  song  and  dance,  which  were  to  be  the  sensation 
of  the  evening. 

It  was  on  the  fourth  day  that  Patience,  returning 
home  late  in  the  afternoon,  met  Mr.  Foord  in  the 
woods.  The  old  gentleman  looked  sad  and  perplexed, 
and  Patience  sprang  upon  the  step  of  his  buggy  and 
demanded  to  know  what  was  the  matter. 

"  It 's  very  odd,"  he  said,  "  but  she  won't  let  you 

go." 

"Won't  let  me  go  ?  "  cried  Patience,  furiously.  «  Well, 
I  '11  go  anyhow." 

"  You  can't,  my  dear.     The  law  won't  let  you." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  law  won't  protect  me 
from  that  woman?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  she  has  the  best  of  it."  He  recalled 
the  woman's  angry  cunning  face,  as  he  had  pleaded 
with  her,  and  shook  his  head.  "  You  see  she  was  never 
in  the  town  in  that  condition  before.  The  men  out 
there  are  so  devoted  to  her  that  —  so  she  has  informed 
me  —  they  would  swear  to  a  man  that  they  had  never 
seen  her  drunk.  And,  you  see,  she 's  never  abused  you 
—  the  only  time  she  struck  you  she  had  provocation 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     59 

—  you  must  admit  that.  You  are  under  her  control 
until  you  are  eighteen,  and  I  don't  see  that  we  can  do 
anything.  I  'm  very  sorry.  I  never  felt  so  defeated  in 
my  life." 

"  But  for  gracious  goodness  sake  why  won't  she  let 
me  go  ?  I'm  no  good  to  speak  of  about  the  place,  and 
she  certainly  is  n't  keeping  me  for  love." 

"  Well  —  I  think  it 's  revenge.  She  remarked  that  she 
had  a  chance  to  pay  up  and  she  'd  do  it." 

"  I  '11  just  run  away,  that 's  all." 

"  The  law  would  bring  you  back,  and  arrest  me  for 
abduction." 

"I  hate  the  law,"  said  Patience,  gloomily.  "Seems 
to  me  I  'm  always  finding  something  new  to  hate." 

"  You  must  not  hate,  my  child,"  and  he  quoted  the 
Bible  dutifully,  although  in  entire  sympathy  with  her. 
"That  is  what  I  am  so  afraid  of — that  you  will  become 
hard  and  bitter.  I  want  to  save  you  from  that.  Well, 
perhaps  she  '11  relent.  I  shall  see  her  again  and  again. 
I  must  go  on,  Patience." 

She  kissed  him  and  walked  sullenly  homeward.  As 
she  entered  the  kitchen  her  mother  looked  up  and 
laughed.  Her  face  was  triumphant  and  malignant. 

"You  don't  go,"  she  said.  "Not  much.  I've  got 
the  whip  hand  this  time  and  I  '11  keep  it.  Here  you  '11 
stay  until  you  're  eighteen  —  " 

Patience  turned  abruptly  and  ran  upstairs.  As  she 
locked  her  door  she  thought  with  some  satisfaction : 
"  Now  that  I  know  myself  I  can  control  myself.  If  I  'd 
jumped  on  her  then  she  'd  have  fallen  in  the  stove." 

As  her  imagination  had  not  dwelt  at  great  length 
upon  the  proposed  change  the  disappointment  was  not 
as  keen  as  it  might  have  been,  much  as  she  desired  to 


60     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

leave  Monterey.  Moreover,  she  was  occupied  with 
Rosita  and  the  coming  examinations.  And  did  she 
not  have  her  Byron?  She  rose  at  dawn  and  read  him. 
In  the  evening  she  went  over  to  the  tower  and  de- 
claimed him  to  the  grey  ocean  whose  passions  were 
eternal.  The  owl,  who  regarded  Byron  as  a  great  bore, 
closed  his  eyes  when  she  began  and  went  to  sleep. 
Sometimes  —  when  the  sun  rode  high  —  she  sat  upon 
the  rubbish  over  Junipero  Serra's  bones,  and  with  one 
eye  out  for  rats  and  snakes  and  tarantulas,  conned  a 
new  poem.  She  liked  the  contrast  between  the  desola- 
tion and  death  in  the  old  ruin  and  the  warm  atmosphere 
of  the  poetry.  As  often  Byron  was  unheeded,  and  she 
dreamed  of  the  mysterious  stranger  who  had  so  magne- 
tised her  that  she  had  forgotten  to  ask  his  name.  She 
had  only  to  close  her  eyes  to  hear  his  voice,  to  recall 
the  words  which  seemed  forever  moving  in  one  or 
other  chamber  of  her  mind,  to  see  the  profile  which  she 
admired  quite  as  much  as  Byron's.  As  for  the  voice,  it 
had  a  possessing  quality  which  made  her  understand 
the  wherefore  of  the  thrilling  notes  of  the  male  bird  in 
spring-time.  She  invested  her  ambitious  young  lawyer 
with  all  the  dark  sardonic  melancholic  fascinations  of 
Lara,  Conrad,  Manfred,  and  Don  Juan.  The  wild  sweet 
sting  of  spring  was  in  her  veins.  Her  mind  was  full  of 
vague  illusions,  very  lovely  and  very  strange,  shifting  of 
outline  and  wholly  inexplicable. 


Patience  Sparhavvk  and  Her  Times     61 


XII 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  last  day  of  school  several 
of  the  girls  decorated  the  hall  with  garlands  and  flags. 
Carpenters  erected  a  stage,  and  Patience  arranged  the 
"  properties."  When  the  great  night  arrived  and 
Monterey  in  its  best  attire  crowded  the  room,  no  cur- 
tain in  the  sleepy__tQwn  had  ever  been  regarded  with 
more  complacent  expectation.  The  Monterenas  were 
thoroughly  satisfied  with  their  offspring,  and  perform- 
ances of  any  sort  were  few. 

The  programme  was  opened  by  Manuela,  who  wore 
an  old  pink  satin  frock  of  her  mother's  cut  short  and 
trimmed  with  a  flounce  of  Spanish  lace.  Her  brown 
shining  face  looked  good  will  upon  all  the  world  as  she 
recited  "  The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus."  Then  came  a 
dialogue  in  which  all  the  little  participants  wore  white 
frocks  and  crimped  hair. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  dressing-room,  Rosita  was  limp  in 
Patience's  arms. 

"  Oh,  Patita  !  "  she  gasped,  "  I  can't !  I  can't ! 
I  'm  frightened  to  death  !  What  shall  I  do?  " 

"Do?  "  cried  Patience,  angrily,  who  was  so  excited 
herself  that  she  pumped  Rosita's  arms  up  and  down  as 
if  the  unfledged  Thespian  had  just  been  rescued  from 
the  bay.  "  Do  ?  You  must  brace  up.  When  you  get 
there  you  '11  be  all  right.  And  you  must  not  get  stage 
fright.  Rosita,  you  must  make  a  success.  Remember 
you  Ve  got  the  star  part.  Don't,  don't  make  a  fool  of 
yourself." 


62     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"Oh,  if  you  could  only  hold  my  hand,"  wailed 
Rosita. 

"  Well,  I  can't,  and  that 's  the  end  of  it.  Now ! 
brace  up  quick."  The  prompter  was  calling  in  a  loud 
whisper,  — 

"  Miss  Thrailkill,  be  ready  when  I  say,  *  Life.'  " 

"Ay,  dios  de  mi  alma"  almost  sobbed  Rosita. 

Patience  dragged  her  to  the  wings  and  held  her 
there.  When  the  cue  was  spoken  she  gave  her  a  hard 
pinch,  then  a  shove.  Rosita  gasped  and  disappeared. 

Patience  slipped  round  into  the  audience,  her  heart 
in  her  throat,  her  eyes  black  with  excitement.  If 
Rosita  broke  down  she  felt  that  she  should  have 
hysterics. 

At  first  Rosita  had  nothing  to  say.  Upon  entering 
she  had  merely  to  fling  herself  upon  a  divan  in  an 
indolent  attitude  whilst  the  others  carried  on  a  spirited 
dialogue.  Patience  saw  that  she  had  managed  to  get 
to  the  sofa  without  falling  prone,  but  also  observed 
that  her  bosom  was  heaving.  Nevertheless,  when  her 
time  came  she  managed  to  drawl  her  lines,  although 
with  as  little  expression  as  she  told  her  rosary. 
Patience  stamped  her  foot  audibly. 

But  as  the  play  progressed  it  was  evident  that  Rosita 
was  recovering  her  poise.  When  she  finally  had  to 
come  forward  she  moved  with  all  the  indolent  grace  of 
her  blood,  and  delivered  her  little  speech  with  such 
piquant  fire  that  the  audience  applauded  loudly.  And 
with  that  clatter  of  feet  and  hands  a  new  light  sprang 
into  the  Spanish  girl's  eyes,  an  expression  half  of  sur- 
prise, half  of  transport.  From  that  time  on  she  acted 
in  a  manner  which  astonished  even  her  instructor. 

She  looked  exquisitely  pretty.     Her  white  rounded 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     63 

neck  and  arms  were  bare.  Her  black  soft  hair  hung 
to  her  knees,  unbound,  caught  back  above  one  little 
ear  with  a  pink  rose.  Her  dress  was  of  black  Spanish 
lace  covered  with  natural  roses.  On  her  tiny  feet  she 
wore  a  pair  of  black  satin  slippers  which  had  belonged 
to  her  grandmother  and  twinkled  many  a  time  to  the 
music  of  El  Son. 

When,  upon  being  twitted  with  her  indolence,  she 
suddenly  sprang  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  and  after 
singing  an  old  Spanish  love-song  to  the  music  of  her 
own  guitar,  danced  El  Son  with  all  the  rhythmic  grace 
of  the  beautiful  women  of  the  old  gay  time,  she  was  no 
longer  an  actress  but  an  impersonator.  The  more  the 
delighted  audience  applauded  the  more  poetically  she 
danced,  the  more  significantly  her  long  eyes  flamed. 
Once  when  the  applause  deafened  she  swayed  as  if  in- 
toxicated. As  the  dance  finished,  her  red  lips  were 
parted.  She  was  panting  slightly. 

When  the  curtain  fell  Patience  rushed  into  the  dress- 
ing-room and  embraced  her  rapturously.  "  Rosita  !  " 
she  cried,  "you  were  simply,  mag-w^-icent." 

Rosita,  who  was  trembling  violently,  hung  about 
Patience's  neck. 

"  Oh,  Patita  !  "  she  gasped.  "  I  was  in  heaven.  I 
never  was  so  happy.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to 
have  a  hundred  people  thinking  of  nothing  but  you 
and  applauding  as  if  they  were  mad.  Oh,  I  'm  going 
to  act,  act,  act  forever  !  I  never  want  to  do  anything 
else.  And  isn't  my  skin  white?  I  wish  I  had  two 
necks  and  four  arms." 


64    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 


XIII 

THE  next  morning  prizes  were  distributed.  Patience 
took  most  of  them,  but  Rosita  was  still  the  sensation  of 
the  hour,  although  she  had  not  passed  an  examination. 
At  noon  she  had  a  luncheon  party.  She  sat  at  the 
head  of  her  table  in  a  white  dotted  Swiss  frock  and 
Roman  sash,  and  talked  faster  than  she  had  ever  talked 
in  her  life  before.  Altogether  she  was  by  no  means 
the  Rosita  of  twenty-four  hours  ago. 

Mrs.  Thrailkill  had  prepared  a  luncheon  of  old  time 
Spanish  dishes,  and  hovered,  large  and  brown  and 
placid,  about  a  table  loaded  with  chickens  under 
mounds  of  yellow  rice,  tamales,  and  dulces.  Patience, 
between  Manuela  and  a  young  cousin  of  Rosita's,  was 
not  unhappy.  Her  prizes  lay  on  the  window  seat,  she 
liked  good  things,  and  was  infected  with  the  gaiety  of 
the  hour.  True,  she  wore  her  old  muslin  frock  and  a 
plaid  sash  made  from  an  ancient  gown  of  her  mother's, 
and  the  rest  of  the  girls  looked  like  a  bed  of  newly 
blossomed  flowers ;  but  at  fifteen  the  spirits  rise  high 
above  trifles. 

When  she  started  for  home  she  was  as  light  of  heart 
as  her  more  favoured  mates ;  but  in  the  wood  a  dire 
affliction  smote  her.  One  of  her  teeth  began  to  ache. 
She  had  seen  her  mother  many  times  with  head  tied  up 
and  distorted  face,  and  had  wondered  scornfully  how 
any  one  could  make  a  fuss  about  a  mere  tooth.  Now, 
however,  when  her  own  suddenly  felt  as  if  impaled  on 
a  needle,  she  uttered  a  loud  wail,  and  ran  toward  home 
as  fast  as  her  legs  could  carry  her.  She  found  her 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     65 

mother  similarly  afflicted,  and  a  bottle  of  drops  on  the 
kitchen  table.  Mrs.  Sparhawk  condescended  to  apply 
the  remedy,  and  the  agony  left  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
come. 

After  supper  Patience  went  over  to  her  tower,  and  as 
ever  floated  between  Carmel  Valley  and  the  stars,  en- 
veloped with  warm  ether,  which  swirled  to  towers  and 
turrets  inhabited  by  a  projection  of  herself  which  she 
saw  only  as  a  lover.  Unfortunately  all  this  rapture  was 
enacted  in  a  strong  draught.  Even  Solomen  uttered  a 
sound  once  or  twice  which  resembled  a  sneeze.  Again 
Patience's  tooth  was  punctured  by  a  red-hot  needle. 
Her  castles  vanished.  She  caught  her  cheek  with  her 
hand,  stumbled  down  the  winding  stair,  and  flew  across 
the  valley,  the  needle  developing  into  a  screw. 

The  house  was  quiet,  the  kitchen  dark.  She  lit  a 
candle  and  searched  frantically  for  the  drops.  They 
were  not  to  be  found.  Then  it  occurred  to  her  that 
her  mother  must  have  taken  them  to  her  room,  and 
she  ran  up  the  stair. 


XIV 

AT  dawn  next  morning  Patience  found  herself  on  the 
summit  of  the  mountain  behind  the  house.  Her  pro- 
gress thither  had  skimmed  the  surface  of  memory  and 
left  no  trace. 

The  sea  was  grey,  the  sky  was  grey.     A  grey  mist 

moved  in  the  valley.     Beyond,  the  wood  on  the  hill 

loomed  in  faint  black  outline.     The  birds  in  the  trees, 

the  seagulls  on  the  rocks,  the  very  ocean  itself,  were 

5 


66     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

locked  in  the  heavy  sleep  of  early  morning.  Once, 
from  the  tower  of  the  Mission,  came  the  plaintive  hoot- 
ing of  the  owl. 

After  a  time  Patience  plucked  a  number  of  stickers 
from  her  stockings,  and  wiped  blood  from  her  torn 
hands  with  a  large  leaf  wet  with  dew.  She  clasped 
her  hands  inertly  about  her  knees  and  stared  down 
upon  the  ocean.  Horror  was  in  her  sunken  eyes. 
The  skin  of  her  face  looked  faded  and  old.  Her  nose 
and  chin  were  as  pinched  as  the  features  of  the  dead. 
She  did  not  look  like  the  same  child.  Nor  was  she. 

Her  eyes  closed  heavily,  her  head  dropped.  She 
roused  herself.  She  felt  that  she  had  no  right  to  do 
anything  again  so  natural  as  to  sleep.  But  suddenly 
she  toppled  over  and  lay  motionless ;  until  the  sun  sent 
its  slanting  rays  under  her  eyelids.  Then  she  stretched 
herself  lazily,  rubbing  her  eyes,  and  smiling  as  children 
do  when  waking.  But  the  smile  froze  to  a  ghastly  grin. 

She  raised  herself  stiffly  and  descended  the  moun- 
tain, clinging  to  the  brush,  the  stones  rolling  from 
beneath  her  feet.  She  ran  across  the  valley  and 
plunged  into  the  pine  woods,  but  did  not  linger  in 
those  fragrant  aisles. 

When  she  reached  the  edge  of  the  town  she  paused 
and  half  turned  back ;  but  there  was  one  thing  she 
dreaded  more  than  to  meet  the  people  of  Monterey, 
and  she  went  on. 

She  skirted  the  town  and  made  her  way  toward  the 
Custom  House  by  a  roundabout  path.  She  passed  a 
group  of  boys,  and  averted  her  head  with  a  gesture  of 
loathing.  One  boy,  a  gallant  admirer,  ran  after  her. 

"Patience!"  he  cried,  "wait  a  minute."  But 
Patience  took  to  her  heels  and  never  paused  until  she 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     67 

reached  the  Custom  House.  The  perplexed  knight 
stood  still  and  whistled. 

"  Well,"  he  exclaimed  to  his  jeering  comrades,  "  I 
always  knew  Patience  Sparhawk  was  a  crank,  but  this 
lets  me  out." 

Patience  stood  for  a  few  moments  on  the  rocks, 
then  went  slowly  to  the  library  and  opened  the  door. 
Mr.  Foord  sat  by  the  fire.  He  looked  up  with  a 
smile. 

"  Ah,  it 's  you,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  very  proud  of  you. 
—  Why,  what 's  the  matter?  " 

Patience,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  took  a  chair 
opposite  him. 

"  What  is  it,  Patience  ?  " 

She  did  not  look  up.  She  could  not.  Finally  she 
moved  her  face  from  him  and  stared  at  the  mantel. 

"  I  've  left  home,"  she  said.  "  I  'd  like  to  stay  here 
for  a  while." 

"  Why,  of  course  you  can  stay  here.  I  '11  tell  Lola 
to  put  a  cot  in  her  room.  But  what  is  the  matter? 
Has  your  mother  been  drinking  again?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Has  she  struck  you  again?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  my  dear  child  ?  You  know  that 
you  are  always  more  than  welcome  here ;  but  you 
must  have  some  excuse  for  leaving  home." 

"  I  have  an  excuse.  I  can't  tell  it.  Please  don't 
say  anything  more  about  it.  I  don't  think  she  '11  send 
for  me." 

"  Well,  well,  perhaps  you  '11  tell  me  after  a  time. 
Meanwhile  make  yourself  at  home." 

He  was  much  puzzled,  but  reflected  that  Patience 


68     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

was  not  like  other  children ;  and  he  knew  Mrs.  Spar- 
hawk's  commanding  talent  for  making  herself  disagree- 
able. Still,  He  was  shocked  at  her  appearance;  and 
as  the  day  wore  on  and  she  would  not  meet  his  eye, 
but  sat  staring  at  the  floor,  his  uneasy  mind  glimpsed 
ugly  possibilities.  At  dinner  she  ate  little  and  did  not 
raise  her  eyes  from  her  plate,  although  she  made  a 
few  commonplace  remarks. 

At  four  o'clock  Billy,  the  buggy,  and  a  farm  hand 
stopped  before  the  Custom  House.  The  man  handed 
a  note  to  Lola,  asking  her  to  give  it  to  Patience. 

The  note  read : 

You  come  home  —  hear?  If  you  don't,  I'll  see  that 
you  do. 

M.  SPARHAWK. 

Patience  went  out  to  the  man,  who  still  sat  in  the 
buggy.  "Tell  her,"  she  said,  looking  at  Billy,  "that 
I  'm  not  going  home,  —  not  now  nor  at  any  other 
time.  Just  make  her  understand  that  I  mean  it." 

The  man  stared,  but  nodded  and  drove  off. 


xv 

AT  midnight  Patience  was  awakened  by  a  frantic  clam- 
our in  the  street.  "  Those  dreadful  Bohemians,"  she 
thought  sleepily,  then  sat  up  with  thumping  heart. 

"They  say  your  name,  nina,  no?"  said  Lola,  whose 
sonorous  slumbers  had  also  been  disturbed. 

Patience  slipped  to  the  floor  and  looked  through  the 
window.  The  moon  flooded  the  old  town.  The  ruined 
fort  on  the  hill  had  never  looked  more  picturesque, 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     69 

the  pines  above  more  calm.  In  the  hollow  near  the 
blue  waters  the  white  arms  of  Junipero  Serra's  cross 
seemed  extended  in  benediction.  The  old  adobes 
were  young  for  the  hour.  One  might  fancy  Isabel 
Herrara  walking  down  from  the  long  house  on  the 
huiTTier  reboso  fluttering  in  the  night  wind,  old  Pio 
Pico,  glittering  with  jewels,  beside  her. 

And  in  the  wide  street  before  the  Custom  House, 
surrounded  by  a  hooting  mob,  the  refuse  of  the  saloons, 
was  a  cursing  gesticulating  woman.  Her  black  hair 
was  unbound,  her  garment  torn.  She  flung  her  fists  in 
the  face  of  those  that  sought  to  hold  her. 

"  Patience  Sparhawk  !  "  she  shrieked.  "  Patience 
Sparhawk  !  Come  down  here  to  your  mother.  Come 
down  here  this  minute.  Come,  I  say,"  and  a  volley  of 
oaths  followed,  greeted  with  a  loud  cackling  laugh  by 
the  rabble. 

Patience  saw  Mr.  Foord,  clad  in  his  dressing-gown, 
go  forth.  She  flung  on  her  clothes  hastily  and  ran 
down  the  stair.  Her  mother  and  Mr.  Foord  were  in 
the  kitchen. 

"  Oh,  she  '11  come  back,"  Mrs.  Sparhawk  was  saying. 
"  I  '11  see  to  that.  How  do  you  like  a  row  under  your 
windows?  Well,  I  '11  come  here  every  night  unless  she 
comes  home.  You'll  put  me  in  the  Home  of  the 
Inebriates,  will  you?  Think  she  '11  like  to  have  that 
said  of  her  mother  when  she 's  grown  up  ?  Not 
Patience  Sparhawk.  I  know  her  weak  point.  She  's 
as  proud  as  hell,  and  I  'm  not  afraid  of  going  to  any 
Home  of  the  Inebriates." 

Patience  pushed  open  the  door.  "  I  'm  going  with 
you,"  she  said.  "  Now  get  out  of  this  house  as  fast  as 
you  can." 


70     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"Oh,  Patience,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Foord.  His  old 
cheeks  were  splashed  with  tears. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  sorry.  I  'm  so  sorry,"  said  Patience, 
her  hands  clenching  and  quivering.  "  I  did  n't  think 
she  'd  do  this,  or  I  would  n't  have  stayed.  What  a 
return  for  all  your  kindness  !  " 

"Patience,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "promise  me 
that  you  will  come  to  see  me  to-morrow.  Promise,  or 
I  shall  not  let  you  go.  She  can  do  her  worst." 

"Well,  I '11  come." 

She  ordered  her  mother  to  follow  her  out  of  the 
back  door  that  they  might  avoid  the  expectant  mob. 
Mrs.  Sparhawk  walked  unsteadily,  but  received  no  as- 
sistance from  her  daughter.  If  she  had  fallen,  Patience 
could  not  have  forced  herself  to  touch  her.  Had  the 
woman  been  a  reeling  mass  of  physical  corruption,  a 
leper,  a  small-pox  scab,  the  girl  could  not  have 
shrunken  farther  from  her. 

They  did  not  speak  until  they  ascended  the  hill  be- 
hind the  town  and  entered  the  woods.  Patience  never 
recalled  that  night  without  inhaling  the  balsamic 
odour  of  the  pines,  the  heavy  perfume  of  forest  lilies, 
without  seeing  the  great  yellow  stars  through  the  up- 
lifted arms  of  the  trees.  It  was  a  night  for  love,  and 
its  guest  was  hate. 

No  more  terrible  conversation  ever  took  place  be- 
tween mother  and  daughter.  After  that  night  they 
never  spoke  again. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     71 


XVI 

THE  next  morning  Patience,  after  breakfast,  carried  a 
pair  of  tongs  and  a  newspaper  up  to  her  room.  She 
spread  the  newspaper  on  the  table,  then  with  the 
tongs  extracted  Byron  from  beneath  the  bed  and  laid 
it  on  the  paper.  She  wrapped  it  up  and  tied  it  se- 
curely without  letting  her  hands  come  in  contact  with 
the  cover.  That  same  afternoon  she  carried  the  book 
to  the  Custom  House  and  threw  it  behind  a  row  of  tall 
volumes  in  one  of  the  cases.  Long  after,  Mr.  Foord 
found  it  there  and  wondered.  He  was  not  at  home 
when  she  arrived.  When  he  returned  she  was  deep  in 
his  arm-chair,  reading  Gibbon's  "Rome."  He  was 
not  without  tact,  and  determined  at  once  to  ignore  the 
events  of  the  previous  day  and  night. 

"  What !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  are  you  really  giving 
poor  old  Gibbon  a  trial  at  last?  And  after  all  your 
abuse  ?  But  perhaps  you  won't  find  him  so  dry,  after 
all." 

"  I  wish  to  read  what  is  dry,"  said  Patience.  "  I  'm 
going  to  take  a  course  in  ancient  history." 

"  No  more  poetry  and  novels  ?  " 

"Not  a  line."  She  spoke  harshly,  and  compelled 
herself  to  meet  Mr.  Foord's  eyes.  Her  own  were  as 
hard  and  as  cold  as  steel.  All  the  soft  dreaming  light 
of  the  past  two  months  had  gone  out  of  them.  They 
were  the  eyes  neither  of  a  girl  nor  of  a  woman.  They 
looked  the  eyes  of  a  sexless  intellect. 

Patience  had  done  the  one  thing  which  a  girl  of 
fifteen  can  do  when  crushed  with  problems ;  she  had 


72     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

twitched  her  shoulders  and  flung  them  off.  She  com- 
prehended that  her  intellect  was  her  best  friend,  and 
plunged  her  racked  head  into  the  hard  facts  which  re- 
quired utmost  concentration  of  mind.  The  sweet 
vague  dreams  of  the  past  were  turned  from  in  loathing. 
If  she  thought  of  them  at  all  it  was  with  fierce  resent- 
ment that  she  had  become  conscious  of  her  woman- 
hood. The  stranger  was  thrust  out  of  memory.  She 
went  no  more  to  the  tower.  The  owl  hooted  in  his 
loneliness,  and  she  drew  the  bed-clothes  over  her  ears. 
When  she  walked  through  the  woods,  to  and  from  the 
town,  she  recited  Gibbon  in  synopsis.  She  spent  the 
day  in  Mr.  Foord's  library,  returning  home  in  time  to 
get  supper.  She  did  her  household  duties  mechani- 
cally, and  the  eyes  of  mother  and  daughter  never  met. 
The  man  Oscar  kept  out  of  her  way. 

Miss  Galpin  had  gone  to  San  Francisco  and  would 
return  no  more  :  she  was  to  marry.  Rosita  was  visit- 
ing in  Santa  Barbara.  Manuela,  now  a  young  lady, 
was  devoting  the  greater  part  of  her  time  to  the  Hotel 
Del  Monte,  where  the  flower  and  vegetables  of  San 
Francisco  gather  in  summer.  She  went  up  to  the 
tanks  in  the  morning  and  to  the  dances  in  the  evening ; 
and  informed  Patience,  one  day  as  they  met  on  the 
street,  that  she  was  having  a  perfectly  gorgeous  time, 
and  had  met  a  man  who  was  too  lovely  for  words. 

The  long  hot  days  and  the  foggy  nights  wore  slowly 
away.  Patience  grew  thinner,  her  face  harder.  Mr. 
Foord  did  his  best  to  divert  her,  but  his  resources 
were  limited.  She  peremptorily  forbade  him  to  allude 
to  the  romance  of  Monterey,  and  he  took  her  out  in 
his  old  buggy  and  talked  of  Gibbon's  "  Rome." 

Once  they  drove  through  the  grounds  of  Del  Monte, 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    73 

—  the  trim  artificial  grounds  that  are  such  an  anomaly 
in  that  valley  of  memories.  On  the  long  veranda  of  the 
great  hotel  of  airy  architecture  people  sat  in  the  bright 
attire  of  summer.  Matrons  rocked  and  gossiped ; 
girls  talked  eagerly  to  languid  youths  that  sat  on  the 
railing.  It  was  all  as  unreal  to  Patience  as  the  fairy- 
land of  her  childhood,  when  she  had  hunted  for  fays 
and  elves  in  the  wood.  She  stared  at  the  scene  an- 
grily, for  the  first  time  feeling  the  sting  of  the  social 
bee. 

"A  vain  frivolous  life  those  people  lead,"  remarked 
Mr.  Foord,  who  disapproved  of  The  World.  "A 
waste  of  time  and  God's  best  gifts,  which  makes  them 
selfish  and  heartless.  Empty  heads  and  hollow  hearts." 

But  Patience,  gazing  at  those  girls  in  their  gay  dainty 
attire,  the  like  of  which  she  had  never  seen  before,  ex- 
perienced a  sudden  violent  wish  to  be  of  them,  empty 
head,  hollow  heart,  and  all.  They  looked  happy  and 
free  of  care.  The  very  atmosphere  of  the  veranda 
seemed  full  of  colour  and  music.  Above  all,  they  were 
utterly  different  from  Patience  Sparhawk,  blessed  and 
enviable  beings.  Even  the  frivolity  of  the  scene  ap- 
pealed to  her,  so  sick  unto  death  of  serious  things. 


XVII 

ONE  day,  late  in  September,  Patience,  as  usual,  left 
Monterey  at  half  past  four  in  order  to  reach  home  in 
time  to  cook  the  supper.  Nature  had  smiled  for  so 
many  successive  days  that  she  wondered  if  the  lips  so 
persistently  set  must  not  soon  strain  back  and  reveal 


74     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

the  teeth.  The  sun,  poised  behind  the  pine  woods, 
flooded  them  with  yellow  light.  As  Patience  walked 
through  the  soft  radiance  she  set  her  teeth  and  recalled 
the  chapters  of  Thiers'  "  French  Revolution,"  through 
which  she  had  that  day  plodded.  But  her  head  felt 
dull.  She  realised  with  a  quiver  of  terror  that  she  was 
beginning  to  feel  less  like  an  intellect  and  more  like  a 
very  helpless  little  girl.  Once  she  discovered  her 
curved  arm  creeping  to  her  eyes.  She  flung  it  down 
and  shook  her  head  angrily.  Was  she  like  other 
people  ? 

Mingling  with  the  fragrance  of  the  pines  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  smelt  smoke.  She  hoped  that  her  woods 
were  not  on  fire.  She  walked  slowly,  indisposed  as 
ever  to  return  home,  the  more  so  to-day  as  she  felt  her- 
self breaking. 

"  I  wish  the  sun  would  not  grin  so,"  she  thought. 
"  I  '11  be  glad  when  winter  comes." 

The  smell  of  smoke  grew  stronger.  She  left  the 
woods.  A  moment  later  she  stood,  white  and  trem- 
bling, looking  down  upon  Carmel  Valley.  The  Spar- 
hawk  farmhouse  was  a  blazing  mass  of  timbers.  A 
volume  of  smoke,  as  straight  and  full  as  a  waterspout, 
stood  directly  above  it.  Men  were  running  about. 
Their  shouts  came  faintly  to  her. 

Patience  pressed  her  hands  convulsively  to  her  eyes. 
She  clutched  her  head  as  if  to  tear  out  the  terrible 
hope  clattering  in  her  brain,  then  ran  down  the  hill  and 
across  the  valley,  feeling  all  the  while  as  if  possessed  by 
ten  thousand  devils. 

"Oh,  I'm  bad,  bad,  bad!"  she  sobbed  in  terror. 
"  I  don't,  I  don't !  " 

As  she  reached  the  scene  the   roof  fell    in.     She 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    75 

glanced  hastily  about.  The  men,  withdrawn  to  a  safe 
distance,  were  gathered  round  the  man  Oscar.  One 
was  binding  his  hands  and  face.  As  they  saw  Patience 
they  turned  as  if  to  run,  then  stood  doggedly. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  Patience  asked. 

There  was  an  instant's  pause.  The  crackling  of  the 
flames  grew  louder,  as  if  it  would  answer.  Then  one 
of  the  men  blurted  out :  "  Burnt  up  in  her  bed.  She 
was  drunk.  We  was  all  in  the  field  when  the  fire 
broke  out.  When  we  got  here  Oscar  tried  to  get  at 
her  room  with  a  ladder,  but  it  was  no  go.  Poor  old 
Madge." 

Patience  without  another  word  turned  and  ran  back 
to  the  woods.  She  ran  until  she  was  exhausted,  more 
horrified  at  herself  than  she  had  been  at  any  of  her  un- 
happy experiences.  After  a  time  she  fell  among  the 
dry  pine  needles,  her  good,  as  she  expressed  it,  still 
trying  to  fight  down  her  bad.  She  felt  that  the  demon 
possessing  her  would  have  sung  aloud  had  she  not  held 
it  by  the  throat.  She  conjured  up  all  the  horrible  de- 
tails of  her  mother's  death  and  ordered  her  soul  to 
pity ;  but  her  brain  remarked  coldly  that  her  mother 
had  probably  felt  nothing.  She  imagined  the  charred 
corpse,  but  it  only  offended  her  artistic  sense. 

Finally  she  fell  asleep.  The  day  was  far  gone  when 
she  awoke.  She  lay  for  a  time  staring  at  the  dim 
arches  above  her,  listening  to  the  night  voices  she  had 
once  loved  so  passionately.  At  last  she  drew  a  deep 
sigh. 

"  I  might  just  as.  well  face  the  truth,"  she  said  aloud. 
"  I  'm  glad,  and  that 's  the  end  of  it.  It 's  wicked  and 
I  'm  sorry ;  but  what  is,  is,  and  I  can't  help  it.  We  're 
not  all  made  alike." 


•j6    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 


XVIII 

PATIENCE  was  once  more  installed  in  Lola's  room. 
Mr.  Foord  applied  for  letters  of  guardianship,  which 
were  granted  at  once.  But  as  he  had  feared,  she  was 
left  without  a  penny.  He  wrote  to  his  half-sister,  ask- 
ing her  if  she  would  take  charge  of  his  ward.  Miss 
Tremont  replied  in  enthusiastic  affirmation.  Miss 
Galpin  invited  Patience  to  spend  two  weeks  with  her 
in  San  Francisco,  offering  to  replenish  the  girl's  ward- 
robe with  several  of  her  own  old  frocks  made  over. 

Those  two  weeks  seemed  to  Patience  the  mad  whirl 
of  excitement  of  which  she  had  read  in  novels.  She 
had  never  seen  a  city  before,  and  the  very  cable  cars 
fascinated  her.  To  glide  up  and  down  the  hills  was  to 
her  the  poetry  of  science.  The  straggling  city  on  its 
hundred  hills,  the  crowded  streets  and  gay  shop  win- 
dows, the  theatres,  the  restaurants,  China  Town,  the 
beautiful  bay  with  its  bare  colorous  hills,  surprised  her 
into  admitting  that  life  appeared  to  be  quite  well  worth 
living  after  all.  When  she  returned  to  Monterey  she 
talked  so  fast  that  Mr.  Foord  clapped  his  hands  to  his 
ears,  and  Rosita  listened  with  expanded  eyes. 

"  Ay,  if  I  could  live  in  San  Francisco  !  "  she  said, 
plaintively.  "  I  acted  all  summer,  Patita,  but  I  got 
tired  of  the  same  people,  and  I  want  to  go  to  the  big 
theatres  and  see  the  real  ones  do  it.  I  'd  like  to  hear 
a  great  big  house  applauding,  only  I  'd  be  so  jealous  of 
the  leading  lady." 

Patience  was  to  start,  immediately  after  Christmas, 
by  steamer  for  New  York.  Mr.  Foord  spent  the  last 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    77 

days  giving  her  much  good  advice.  He  said  little  of 
his  own  sorrow  to  part  from  her.  Once  he  had  been 
tempted  to  keep  her  for  the  short  time  that  remained 
to  him,  but  had  put  the  temptation  aside  with  the  sad 
resignation  of  old  age.  He  knew  Patience's  imperative 
need  of  new  impressions  in  these  her  plastic  years. 

The  day  before  she  left  she  went  over  to  Carmel  to 
say  good-bye  to  Solomon.  He  flapped  his  wings  with 
delight,  although  he  could  not  see  her,  and  nestled 
close  to  her  side  in  a  manner  quite  unlike  his  haughty 
habit.  Patience  thought  he  looked  older  and  greyer, 
and  his  wings  had  a  dejected  droop.  She  took  him 
in  her  arms  with  an  impulse  of  tenderness,  and  this 
time  he  did  not  repulse  her. 

"Poor  old  Solomon,"  she  said,  "I  suppose  you  are 
lonely  and  forlorn  in  your  old  age,  but  this  old  tower 
would  n't  be  what  it  is  without  you.  It 's  too  bad  I 
can't  write  to  you  as  I  can  to  my  two  or  three  other 
friends,  and  you  '11  never  know  I  have  n't  forgotten  you, 
poor  old  Solomon.  Oh,  dear  !  Oh,  dear !  I  wonder 
if  owls  do  suffer  too.  You  look  so  wise  and  venerable, 
perhaps  you  are  thinking  that  lonely  old  age  is  terrible 
—  as  I  know  Mr.  Foord  does." 

Solomon  pecked  at  her  mildly.  Her  gaze  wandered 
out  over  the  ocean.  She  wondered  if  a  thousand  years 
had  passed  since  she  had  dreamed  her  dreams.  Their 
very  echoes  came  from  the  mountains  of  space. 

When  she  went  away  Solomon  followed  her  to  the 
head  of  the  stair.  She  looked  upward  once  and  saw 
him  standing  there,  with  drooping  wings  and  head  a 
little  bent.  The  darkness  of  the  stair  gave  him  vision, 
and  he  fluttered  his  wings  expectantly,  as  she  paused 
and  lifted  her  face  to  him.  But  when  she  did  not 


78     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

return  he  walked  with  great  dignity  to  his  accustomed 
place  against  the  wall,  nor  even  lifted  up  his  voice  in 
protest. 

The  next  morning  Rosita  accompanied  her  to  the 
station  and  wept  loudly  as  the  train  approached.  But 
Patience  did  not  cry  until  she  stood  in  her  stateroom 
with  Mr.  Foord. 


BOOK    II 


BOOK    II 


PATIENCE  watched  the  dusty  hills  of  San  Francisco,  the 
sparkling  bay  alive  with  sail  and  spar,  the  pink  moun- 
tains of  the  far  coast  range,  the  brown  hills  opposite  the 
grey  city,  willowed  and  gulched  and  bare,  the  forts  on 
rock  and  points,  until  the  wild  lurching  of  the  steamer 
over  the  bar  directed  her  attention  to  the  unhappy 
passengers.  In  a  short  while  she  had  not  even  these 
to  amuse  her,  nothing  but  a  grey  plain  and  empty  decks. 
At  first  she  felt  a  waif  in  space ;  but  soon  a  delightful 
sense  of  independence  stole  over  her,  of  freedom  from 
all  the  ills  and  responsibilities  of  life.  The  land  world 
might  have  collapsed  upon  its  fiery  heart,  so  little  could 
it  affect  her  while  that  waste  of  waters  slid  under  the 
horizon. 

The  few  passengers  came  forth  restored  in  a  day  or 
two.  A  husband  and  wife  and  several  children  did  not 
interest  Patience;  neither  did  the  captain's  wife,  in 
whose  charge  she  was.  A  young  girl  with  a  tangle  of 
yellow  hair  under  a  sailor  hat  was  more  inviting,  but  she 
flirted  industriously  with  the  purser  and  took  not  the 
slightest  notice  of  Patience.  Her  invalid  mother 
reclined  languidly  in  a  steamer  chair  and  read  the 
novels  of  E.  P.  Roe. 

The  only  other  passenger  was  an  elderly  gentleman 
who  read  books  in  white  covers  neatly  lettered  with 

6 


82     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

black  which  fascinated  Patience.  She  was  beginning  to 
long  for  books.  The  invalid  lent  her  a  Roe,  but  she 
returned  it  half  unread.  As  the  old  gentleman  had 
never  addressed  her,  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  her 
existence,  she  could  hardly  expect  a  similar  courtesy 
from  him. 

She  was  glowering  upon  universal  stupidity  one 
morning  when  he  appeared  on  deck  with  a  carpet  bag, 
from  which,  after  comfortably  establishing  himself  in 
his  steamer  chair,  he  took  little  white  volume  after 
little  white  volume.  Patience's  curiosity  overcame  her. 
She  went  forward  slowly  and  stood  before  him.  He 
looked  up  sharply.  His  black  eyes,  piercing  from  their 
shaggy  arches,  made  her  twitch  her  head  as  if  to  fling 
aside  some  penetrative  force.  His  very  beard,  silver 
though  it  was,  had  a  fierce  sidewise  twist.  His  nose 
was  full  nostrilled  and  drooped  scornfully.  The  specta- 
cles he  wore  served  as  a  sort  of  lens  for  the  fire  of  his 
extraordinary  eyes. 

"Well?"  he  said  gruffly. 

"  Please,  sir,"  said  Patience,  humbly,  "  will  you  lend 
me  a  book?  " 

"  Book  ?  I  don't  carry  children's  literature  round 
with  me." 

"  I  don't  read  children's  literature." 

"  Oh,  you  don't?  Well,  not '  The  Chatterbox,'  I  sup- 
pose ;  but  I  have  nothing  of  Pansy's  nor  yet  of  The 
Duchess." 

"  I  would  n't  read  them  if  you  had,"  cried  Patience, 
angrily.  "  Perhaps  I  've  read  a  good  many  books 
that  you  have  n't  re-read  so  long  ago  yourself.  I  've 
read  Dickens  and  Thackeray  and  Scott,  and,"  with 
a  shudder,  "  Gibbon's  <  Rome  '  and  Thiers'  « French 
Revolution.' " 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     83 

"Oh,  you  have?  Well,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Sit 
down,  and  I  '11  see  if  I  can  find  something  for  a  young 
lady  of  your  surprising  attainments." 

Patience,  too  pleased  to  resent  sarcasm,  applied 
herself  to  his  elbow. 

"  Why  are  they  all  bound  alike?  "  she  asked. 

"This  is  the  Tauchnitz  edition  of  notable  English 
and  American  books.  How  is  this?"  He  handed  her 
a  volume  of  Grace  Aguilar. 

"  No,  sir  !  I  've  tried  her,  and  she  's  a  greater  bore 
than  Jane  Austen." 

"  Oh,  you  want  a  love  story,  I  suppose  ?  "  His  accen- 
tuation was  fairly  sardonic. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  she  said  with  an  intonation  which 
made  him  turn  and  regard  her  with  interest.  Then 
once  more  he  explored  his  bag. 

"Will  this  suit  you?"  He  held  out  a  copy  of 
Carlyle's  "  French  Revolution." 

Patience  groaned.  "  Did  n't  I  tell  you  I  'd  just  read 
Thiers'?" 

"This  isn't  Thiers'.  Try  it."  And  he  took  no 
further  notice  of  her. 

Patience  opened  the  volume,  and  in  a  few  moments 
was  absorbed.  There  was  something  in  the  storm  and 
blare  of  the  style  which  struck  a  responsive  chord.  She 
did  not  raise  her  head  until  dinner  time.  She  scarcely 
spoke  until  she  had  finished  the  volume,  and  then  only 
to  ask  for  the  second.  For  several  days  she  felt  as  if 
the  atmosphere  was  charged  with  dynamite,  and  jumped 
when  any  one  addressed  her.  The  owner  of  the  Tauch- 
nitz watched  her  curiously.  When  she  had  finished  the 
second  volume  she  told  him  that  she  did  not  care  for 
anything  more  at  present.  She  leaned  over  the  railing 


84     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

most  of  the  day,  watching  the  waves.  Toward  sunset 
the  gentleman  called  peremptorily, — 

"  Come  here." 

Patience  stood  before  his  chair. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  he  demanded. 
"  Tell  me  exactly  what  your  impressions  are." 

"  I  feel  as  if  there  was  an  earthquake  in  my  skull 
and  all  sorts  of  pictures  flying  about,  and  exploded 
pieces  of  drums  and  trumpets,  and  kings  and  queens. 
I  think  Carlyle  must  have  been  made  on  purpose  to 
write  the  French  Revolution.  It  was  —  as  if —  there 
was  a  great  picture  of  it  made  on  the  atmosphere,  and 
when  he  was  born  it  passed  into  him." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  he  said,  "  you  are  a  degree  or  two 
removed  from  the  letters  of  bread  and  milk.  You  are 
a  very  remarkable  kid.  Sit  down." 

Patience  took  the  chair  beside  him.  "  He  made  my 
head  ache,"  she  added.  "I  feel  as  if  it  had  been 
hammered." 

"  I  don't  wonder.  Older  heads  have  felt  the  same 
way.  What 's  your  name  ?  " 

"  Patience  Sparhawk." 

"  Tell  me  all  about  yourself." 

"  Oh,  there  is  n't  much  to  tell,"  and  she  frowned 
heavily. 

"Don't  look  so  tragic  —  you  alarm  me.  I'm  con- 
vinced there  is  a  great  deal.  Come,  I  want  to  know." 

Patience  gave  a  few  inane  particulars.  The  old 
gentleman  snorted.  "  It 's  evident  you  've  never  been 
interviewed,"  he  said  grimly.  "  Now,  I  '11  tell  you  who 
I  am,  and  then  you  won't  mind  talking  about  yourself. 
There  's  nothing  so  catching  as  egotism.  My  name  is 
James  E.  Field.  I  own  one  of  the  great  newspapers  of 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     85 

New  York,  of  which  I  am  also  editor-in-chief.  Do 
you  know  what  that  means  ?  Well,  if  you  don't,  let  me 
tell  you.  It  is  to  be  a  man  more  powerful  than  the 
President  of  the  United  States,  for  he  can  make 
presidents,  which  is  something  the  president  himself 
can't  do.  He  knows  more  about  people's  private  affairs 
than  any  of  intimate  relationship ;  he  has  his  finger  on 
the  barometer  of  his  readers'  brain ;  he  can  make 
them  sensational  or  sober,  intellectually  careless  or 
exacting ;  he  can  keep  them  in  ignorance  of  all  that  is 
best  worth  knowing  of  the  world's  affairs,  by  snubbing 
the  great  events  and  tendencies  of  the  day  and  vitiating 
their  brain  with  local  crimes  and  scandals,  or  he  can 
illumine  their  minds  and  widen  their  brain  cells  by  not 
only  enlarging  upon  what  every  intelligent  person  should 
wish  to  know,  but  by  making  such  matter  of  profound 
interest ;  he  can  ignore  science,  or  enlighten  several 
hundred  thousand  people ;  he  can  add  to  the  happi- 
ness of  the  human  race  by  exposing  abuses  and  hidden 
crime,  or  he  can  accept  hush  money  and  let  the  sore 
fester ;  he  can  lash  the  unrest  of  the  lower  classes,  or 
chloroform  it;  he  can  use  the  sledge  hammer,  the 
rapier,  and  the  vitriol,  or  give  over  his  editorial  page  to 
windy  nothings ;  he  can  demolish  political  bosses,  or 
prolong  their  career.  In  short,  his  power  is  greater  than 
Alexander's  was,  for  he  is  a  general  of  minds  instead  of 
brute  force." 

"  My  goodness  gracious ! "  exclaimed  Patience. 
"  What  sort  of  a  paper  have  you  got?  " 

He  laughed.  "Wait  until  you've  lived  in  New 
York  awhile  and  you  '11  find  out.  Its  name  is  the 
'  Day,'  and  it  has  made  a  president  or  two,  and  made 
one  or  two  others  wish  they  'd  never  been  born.  By 


86     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

the  way,  I  didn't  tell  you  much  about  myself,  did 
I?  The  auxiliary  subject  carried  me  away.  I'm 
married,  and  have  several  sons  and  daughters,  and 
am  off  for  a  rest  —  not  from  the  family  but  from  the 
'  Day.'  I  Ve  been  round  the  world.  That  will  do  for 
the  present.  Tell  me  all  about  Monterey." 

With  consummate  skill  he  extracted  the  history  of 
her  sixteen  years.  On  some  points  she  fought  him 
so  obstinately  that  he  inferred  what  she  would  not 
tell.  He  ended  by  becoming  profoundly  interested. 
He  was  a  man  of  enthusiasms,  which  sometimes  wrote 
themselves  in  vitriol,  at  others  in  the  milk  of  human 
kindness.  His  keen  unerring  brain,  which  Patience 
fancied  flashed  electric  search  lights,  comprehended 
that  it  had  stumbled  upon  a  character  waging  perpetual 
war  with  the  pitiless  Law  of  Circumstance,  and  that  the 
issue  might  serve  as  a  plot  for  one  of  the  mental 
dramas  of  the  day. 

"  Your  experience  and  the  bad  blood  in  you,  taken 
in  connection  with  your  bright  and  essentially  modern 
mind,  will  make  a  sort  of  intellectual  anarchist  of  you," 
he  said.  "  I  doubt  if  you  take  kindly  to  the  domestic 
life.  You  will  probably  go  in  for  the  social  problems, 
and  ride  some  polemical  hobby  for  eight  or  ten  years, 
at  the  end  of  which  time  you  will  be  inclined  to  look 
upon  your  sex  as  the  soubrettes  of  history.  Your 
enthusiasm  may  make  you  a  faddist,  but  your  common 
sense  may  aid  you  in  the  perception  of  several  eternal 
truths  which  the  women  of  to-day  in  their  blind  bolt 
have  overlooked." 

A  moment  later  he  repented  his  generalisations,  for 
Patience  had  demanded  full  particulars.  Nevertheless, 
he  gave  her  many  a  graphic  outline  of  the  various 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     87 

phases  of  current  history,  and  was  the  most  potent 
educational  force  that  she  had  yet  encountered.  She 
preferred  him  to  books  and  admired  him  without  re- 
serve, trotting  at  his  heels  like  a  small  dog.  His 
unique  and  virile  personality,  his  brilliant  and  imperious 
mind,  magnetised  the  modern  essence  of  which  she 
was  made.  There  was  nothing  of  the  old-fashioned 
intellectual  type  about  him.  He  might  have  induced 
the  coining  of  the  word"  brainy,"  — he  certainly  typed 
it.  Although  he  had  the  white  hair  and  the  accumu- 
lated wisdom  of  his  years,  he  had  the  eyes  of  youth  and 
the  fist  of  vigour  at  any  age.  One  day  when  two 
natives  looked  too  long  upon  Patience's  blondinity, 
as  she  and  Mr.  Field  were  exploring  a  banana  grove 
during  one  of  their  brief  excursions  on  shore,  he 
cracked  their  skulls  together  as  if  they  had  been  two 
cocoanuts. 

Patience  laughed  as  the  blacks  dropped  sullenly 
behind.  "  How  funny  that  they  should  admire  me," 
she  said.  "  I  'm  not  pretty." 

"  Well,  you  're  white.  Besides,  there  is  one  thing 
more  fascinating  than  beauty,  and  that  is  a  strong 
individuality.  It  radiates  and  magnetises." 

"  Have  I  all  that?  "     Patience  blushed  with  delight. 

He  laughed  good-naturedly.  "  Y.es,  I  '11  stake  a 
good  deal  that  you  have.  You  may  even  be  pretty 
some  day  j  that  is,  if  you  ever  get  those  freckles  off." 

Inherent  as  was  her  passion  for  nature,  she  enjoyed 
the  rich  beauty  of  the  tropics  the  more  for  the  com- 
panionship of  a  mind  skilled  in  observation  and  inter- 
pretation. It  was  her  first  mental  comprehension  of 
the  law  of  duality. 

As  they  approached  New  York  harbour  Mr.  Field  said 


88     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

to  her :  "  I  think  I  '11  have  to  make  a  newspaper 
woman  of  you.  When  you  have  finished  your  educa- 
tion, don't  think  of  settling  down  to  any  such  hum- 
drum career  as  that  of  the  school-teacher.  Come 
to  me,  and  I  '11  put  you  through  your  paces.  If  I  'm 
not  more  mistaken  than  I  've  been  yet,  I  '11  turn  out 
a  newspaper  woman  that  will  induce  a  mightier  blast 
of  woman's  horn.  Think  you  'd  like  it?  " 

"  I  'd  like  to  be  with  you,"  said  Patience,  on  the 
verge  of  tears.  "  Sha'n't  I  see  you  again  till  I  'm 
eighteen?" 

"  No,  I  don't  want  to  see  or  hear  from  you  again 
until  you  Ve  kneaded  that  brain  of  yours  into  some 
sort  of  shape  by  three  years  of  hard  study.  Then 
I  '11  go  to  work  on  a  good  foundation.  You  have  n't 
told  me  if  you  '11  take  a  try  at  it." 

"  Of  course  I  will.  Do  you  think  I  want  to  be 
a  school-teacher?  I  should  think  it  would  be  lovely 
to  be  a  newspaper  woman." 

"  Well,  it  is  n't  exactly  lovely,  but  it  is  a  good  train- 
ing in  the  art  of  getting  along  without  adjectives. 
Now  look  round  you  and  I  '11  explain  this  harbour ; 
and  don't  you  brag  any  more  about  your  San  Francisco 
harbour." 

They  entered  through  The  Narrows,  between  the  two 
toy  forts.  A  few  lone  sentries  paced  the  crisp  snow 
on  the  heights  of  Staten  Island,  and  looked  in  imminent 
danger  of  tumbling  down  the  perpendicular  lawns. 
The  little  stone  windows  of  the  earthen  redoubts 
seemed  to  wink  confidently  at  each  other  across  the 
water,  and  loomed  superciliously  above  the  forts  on 
the  water's  edge.  Long  Island,  had  the  repose  of  a 
giant  that  had  stretched  his  limbs  in  sleep,  unmindful 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     89 

of  the  temporary  hamlets  on  his  swelling  front.  Staten 
Island  curved  and  uplifted  herself  coquettishly  under 
her  glittering  garb  and  crystal  woods.  Far  away  the 
faint  line  of  the  New  Jersey  shore,  looking  like  one 
unbroken  city  on  a  hundred  altitudes,  hovered  faintly 
under  its  mist.  The  river  at  its  base  was  a  silver 
ribbon  between  a  mirage  and  a  stupendous  castle  of 
seven  different  architectures  surmounted  by  a  golden 
dome  —  which  same  was  New  York  and  the  dome 
of  a  newspaper.  Then  a  faint  fairy-like  bridge,  delicate 
as  a  cobweb,  sprang  lightly  across  another  river  to 
;.a  city  of  walls  with  windows  in  them  —  which  same 
was  Brooklyn.  Under  the  shadow  of  the  arches  was 
a  baby  island  fortified  with  what  appeared  to  be  a  large 
Dutch  cheese  out  of  which  the  mice  had  gnawed 
their  way  with  much  regularity.  The  great  bay,  blue 
as  liquid  sapphire,  was  alive  with  craft  of  every 
design :  rowboats  scuttled  away  from  the  big  outgoing 
steamers ;  sails,  white  as  the  snow  on  the  heights, 
bellied  in  the  sharp  wind ;  yellow  and  red  ferry  boats 
gave  back  long  symmetrical  curves  of  white  smoke ; 
gaunt  ships  with  naked  spars  lay  at  rest.  On  Liberty 
Island  the  big  girl  pointed  solemnly  upward  as  if 
reminding  the  city  on  the  waters  of  the  many  mansions 
in  the  invisible  stars.  Snow  clouds  were  scudding 
upward  from  the  east,  but  overhead  there  was  plentiful 
gold  and  blue. 

Patience  gazed  through  Mr.  Field's  glass,  enraptured, 
and  promised  not  to  brag.  As  they  swung  toward  the 
dock  he  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  hers. 

"  Now  don't  think  I  'm  callous,"  he  said,  "  because 
I  part  from  you  without  any  apparent  regret.  You  are 
going  to  be  in  good  hands  during  the  rest  of  your  early 


90     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

girlhood,  and  I  could  be  of  no  assistance  to  you ;  and 
I  am  a  very  busy  man.  Let  me  tell  you  that  you  have 
made  this  month  a  good  deal  shorter  than  it  would 
otherwise  have  been ;  and  when  we  meet  again  you 
won't  have  to  introduce  yourself.  There  are  my  folks, 
and  there  goes  the  gang-plank.  Good-bye,  and  God 
bless  you." 


II 

PATIENCE  leaned  over  the  upper  railing,  looking  at  the 
expectant  crowd  on  the  wharf,  wondering  when  the 
captain  would  remember  her.  She  felt  a  strong  incli- 
nation to  run  after  Mr.  Field.  As  he  receded  up  the 
wharf,  surrounded  by  his  family,  he  turned  and  waved 
his  hand  to  her. 

"  Why  could  n't  he  have  been  Mr.  Foord's  brother  or 
something?"  she  thought  resentfully.  "I  think  he 
might  have  adopted  me." 

As  the  crowd  thinned  she  noticed  two  elderly  women 
standing  a  few  feet  from  the  vessel,  alternately  inspecting 
the  landed  passengers  and  the  decks.  One  was  a  very 
tall  slender  and  graceful  woman,  possessed  of  that  sub- 
tle quality  called  style,  despite  her  unfashionable  attire. 
In  her  dark  regular  face  were  the  remains  of  beauty, 
and  although  nervous  and  anxious,  it  wore  the  seal  of 
gentle  blood.  Her  large  black  eyes  expressed  a  curious 
commingling  of  the  spiritual  and  the  human.  She  was 
probably  sixty  years  old.  At  her  side  was  a  woman 
some  ten  years  younger,  of  stouter  and  less  elastic 
figure,  with  a  strong  dark  kind  intelligent  face  and  an 
utter  disregard  of  dress.  She  carried  several  bundles. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     91 

"Oh,  hasn't  she  come?"  cried  the  elder  woman. 
"  Can  she  have  died  at  sea  ?  I  am  sure  the  dear  Lord 
would  n't  let  anything  happen  to  her.  Dear  sister,  do 
you  see  her?" 

The  other  woman,  who  was  also  looking  everywhere 
except  at  Patience,  replied  in  a  round  cheerful  voice  : 
"  No,  not  yet,  but  I  feel  sure  she  is  there.  The  cap- 
tain has  n't  had  time  to  bring  her  on  shore.  The  Lord 
tells  me  that  it  is  all  right." 

"  One  of  those  is  Miss  Tremont,"  thought  Patience. 
"  I  may  as  well  go  down.  They  appear  to  be  fright- 
fully religious,  but  they  have  nice  faces." 

She  ran  down  to  the  lower  deck,  then  across  the 
gang-plank. 

"  I  'm  Patience  Sparhawk,"  she  said;  "are  you  —  " 
The  older  woman  uttered  a  little  cry,  caught  her  in  her 
arms,  and  kissed  her.  "  Oh,  you  dear  little  thing !  " 
she  exclaimed,  and  kissed  her  again.  "  How  I  Ve 
prayed  the  dear  Lord  to  bring  you  safely,  and  He  has, 
praise  His  holy  name.  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  I 
do  love  children  so.  We  '11  be  so  happy  together  —  you 
and  I  and  Him  —  and,  oh,  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you." 

Patience,  breathless,  but  much  gratified,  kissed  her 
warmly. 

"  Don't  forget  me,"  exclaimed  the  other  lady.  She 
had  a  singularly  hearty  voice  and  a  brilliant  smile. 
Patience  turned  to  her  dutifully,  and  received  an  em- 
phatic kiss. 

"  This  is  my  dear  friend,  my  dear  sister  in  the  Lord, 
Miss  Beale,  Patience,"  said  Miss  Tremont,  Hurriedly, 
"  and  she  wanted  to  see  you  almost  as  much  as  I  did." 

"  Indeed  I  did,"  said  Miss  Beale,  breezily.  "  I  too 
love  little  girls." 


92     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"I'm  sure  you're  both  very  kind,"  said  Patience, 
helplessly.  She  hardly  knew  how  to  meet  so  much 
effusion.  But  something  cold  and  old  within  her  seemed 
to  warm  and  thaw. 

"You  dear  little  thing,"  continued  Miss  Tremont. 
"  Are  you  cold  ?  That  is  a  very  light  coat  you  have  on." 

Patience  was  not  dressed  for  an  eastern  winter,  but 
her  young  blood  and  curiosity  kept  her  warm. 

"  Here  comes  the  captain,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  no,  I  'm 
all  right.  I  like  the  cold." 

The  captain,  satisfying  himself  that  his  charge  was  in 
the  proper  hands,  offered  to  send  her  trunk  to  Maria- 
ville  by  express,  and  Patience,  wedged  closely  between 
the  two  ladies,  boarded  a  street  car. 

"  You  know,"  exclaimed  Miss  Tremont,  "  I  knew  the 
Lord  would  bring  you  to  me  safely  in  spite  of  the  perils 
of  the  ocean.  Every  night  and  every  morning  I  prayed  : 
Dear  Lord,  don't  let  anything  happen  to  her,  —  and  I 
knew  He  wouldn't." 

"Does  He  always  do  what  you  tell  Him?"  asked 
Patience. 

"  Almost  everything  I  ask  Him,  —  that  is  to  say,  when 
He  thinks  best.  Dear  Patience,  if  you  knew  how  He 
looks  out  for  me  —  and  it  is  well  He  sees  fit,  for  dear 
knows  I  have  a-  time  taking  care  of  myself.  Why,  He 
even  takes  care  of  my  purse.  I  'm  always  leaving  it 
round,  and  He  always  sends  it  back  to  me  —  from 
counters  and  trains  and  restaurants  and  everywhere. 
And  when  I  start  in  the  wrong  direction  He  always 
whispers  in  my  ear  in  time.  Why,  once  I  had  to  catch 
a  certain  train  to  Philadelphia,  where  I  was  to  preside 
at  a  convention,  and  I  'd  taken  the  wrong  street  car,  and 
when  I  jumped  off  and  took  the  right  one,  the  driver 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     93 

said  I  could  n't  possibly  get  to  the  ferry  in  time.  So  I 
just  shut  my  eyes  and  prayed  ;  and  then  I  told  the  driver 
that  it  would  be  all  right,  as  I  had  asked  the  Lord  to 
see  that  I  got  there  in  time.  The  driver  laughed,  and 
said :  '  W-a-a-1,  I  guess  the  Lord  '11  go  back  on  you 
this  time.'  But  I  caught  that  ferry-boat.  He  —  the 
Lord  —  made  it  five  minutes  late.  And  it  's  always  the 
same.  He  takes  care  of  me,  praised  be  His  name." 

"  You  must  feel  as  if  He  were  your  husband,"  said 
Patience,  too  gravely  to  be  suspected  of  irreverence. 

"Why,  He  is.  Doesn't  the  Bible  say—"  But  the 
car  began  to  rattle  over  the  badly  paved  streets,  and  the 
quotation  was  lost. 

Patience  looked  eagerly  through  the  windows  at 
purlieus  of  indescribable  ugliness;  but  it  was  New 
York,  a  city  greater  than  San  Francisco,  and  she  found 
even  its  youthful  old  age  picturesque.  The  dense 
throng  of  people  in  Sixth  Avenue  and  the  immense 
shop  windows  induced  expressions  of  rapture. 

"You  don't  live  here,  do  you?"  she  said  with  a  sigh. 

"Oh,  Mariaville  is  much  nicer  than  New  York," 
replied  Miss  Beale,  in  her  enthusiastic  way.  "  I  hate  a 
great  crowded  city.  It  baffles  you  so  when  you  try  to 
do  good." 

"  Still  they  do  say  that  reform  work  is  more  systema- 
tised  here,  dear  sister." 

"  Forty-second  Street,"  shouted  the  conductor,  and 
they  changed  cars.  A  few  moments  later  they  were 
pulling  out  of  the  Grand  Central  Station  for  Mariaville. 

Miss  Beale  had  asked  the  conductor  to  turn  a  seat, 
and  Patience  faced  her  new  friends.  As  they  left  the 
tunnel  she  caught  sight  of  a  tiny  bow  of  white  ribbon 
each  wore  on  her  coat 


94     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"Why  do  you  wear  that?"  she  asked. 

«  Why,  we  're  W.  C.  T.  U's,"  replied  Miss  Beale. 

"Wctus?" 

"  Temperance  cranks,"  said  Miss  Tremont,  smiling. 

"  Temperance  cranks? " 

"  Why,  have  you  never  heard  of  the  Woman's  Chris- 
tian Temperance  Union  ?"  asked  Miss  Beale,  a  chill 
breathing  over  her  cordial  voice.  "  The  movement 
has  reason  to  feel  encouraged  all  through  the  West." 

"  I  Ve  never  heard  of  it.  They  don't  have  it  in 
Monterey,  and  I  Ve  not  been  much  in  San  Francisco." 

"  She 's  such  a  child,"  said  Miss  Tremont.  "  How 
could  she  know  of  it  out  there  ?  But  now  I  know  she 
is  going  to  be  one  of  our  very  best  Y's." 

"Y's?"  asked  Patience,  helplessly.  She  wondered 
if  this  was  the  "  fad  "  Mr.  Field  had  predicted  for  her, 
then  recalled  that  he  had  alluded  once  to  the  "Tem- 
perance movement,"  but  could  not  remember  his  ex- 
planation, if  he  had  made  any.  Doubtless  she  had 
evaded  a  disagreeable  topic.  But  now  that  it  was 
evidently  to  be  a  part  of  her  new  life  she  made  no  at- 
tempt to  stem  Miss  Tremont's  enthusiasm. 

"  The  Y's  are  the  young  women  of  the  Union ;  we 
are  the  W's.  It  is  our  lifework,  Patience,  and  I  am 
sure  you  will  become  as  much  interested  in  it  as  we 
are,  and  be  proud  to  wear  the  white  ribbon.  We  have 
done  so  much  good,  and  expect  to  do  much  more,  with 
the  dear  Lord's  help.  It  is  slow  work,  but  we  shall 
conquer  in  the  end,  for  He  is  with  us." 

"What  do  you  do, — forbid  people  to  sell  liquor?" 

Both  ladies  laughed.  They  were  not  without  hu- 
mour, and  their  experience  had  developed  it.  "  No," 
said  Miss  Tremont,  "we  don't  waste  our  time  like  that." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     95 

She  gave  an  enthusiastic  account  of  what  the  Union 
had  accomplished.  Her  face  glowed;  her  fine  head 
was  thrown  back ;  her  dark  eyes  sparkled.  Patience 
thought  she  must  have  been  a  beautiful  girl.  She  had 
a  full  voice  with  odd  notes  of  protest  and  imperious 
demand  which  puzzled  her  young  charge.  One  would 
have  supposed  that  she  was  constantly  imploring  favours, 
and  yet  her  air  suggested  natural  hauteur,  unextermin- 
ated  by  cultivated  humility. 

"  I  should  think  it  was  a  good  idea,"  said  Patience, 
with  perfect  sincerity. 

"  Oh,  there 's  dear  Sister  Watt,"  cried  Miss  Tremont, 
and  she  rose  precipitately,  and  crossing  the  aisle  sat 
down  beside  a  careworn  anxious-eyed  woman  who 
also  wore  the  white  ribbon. 

"  Come  over  by  me  until  Miss  Tremont  comes  back," 
said  Miss  Beale,  with  her  brilliant  smile.  "Tell  me, 
don't  you  love  her  already?  Oh,  you  have  no  idea 
how  good  she  is.  She  is  heart  and  soul  in  her  work, 
and  just  lives  for  the  Lord.  She  sometimes  visits  twenty 
poor  families  a  week,  besides  her  Temperance  class, 
her  sewing  school,  her  Bible  Readings,  her  Bible  class, 
and  all  the  religious  societies,  of  which  she  is  the  most 
active  worker.  She  is  also  the  Mariaville  agent  for 
the  Society  for  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Children,  and 
trustee  of  the  Bible  Society.  You  should  hear  her  pray. 
I  have  heard  all  the  great  revivalists,  but  I  have  never 
heard  anything  like  Miss  Tremont's  prayers.  How  I 
envy  you  living  with  her  !  You  '11  hear  her  twice  a  day, 
and  sometimes  oftener.  She  has  a  nice  house  on 
the  outskirts  of  Mariaville.  Her  father  left  it  to  her 
twenty  years  ago,  and  she  dedicated  it  to  the  Lord  at 
once.  It  is  headquarters  for  church  meetings  of  all 


96     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

sorts.  She  has  a  Bible  reading  one  afternoon  a  week. 
Any  one  can  go,  even  a  servant,  for  Miss  Tremont,  like 
all  true  followers  of  the  Lord,  is  humble." 

Patience  reflected  that  she  had  never  seen  any  one 
look  less  humble  than  Miss  Beale.  In  spite  of  her  old 
frock  she  conveyed  with  unmistakable  if  unconscious 
emphasis  that  she  possessed  wealth  and  full  knowledge 
of  its  power. 

"  You  look  so  happy,"  Patience  said,  her  curiosity 
regarding  Miss  Tremont  blunted  for  the  present.  "Are 
you?" 

"  Happy  ?  Of  course  I  am.  I  Ve  never  known  an 
unhappy  moment  in  my  life.  When  my  dear  parents 
died,  I  only  envied  them.  And  have  I  not  perfect 
health  ?  Is  not  every  moment  of  my  time  occupied  ? — 
why,  I  only  sleep  six  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four.  And 
Him.  Do  I  not  work  for  Him,  and  is  He  not  always 
with  me?" 

"  They  are  so  funny  about  God,"  thought  Patience. 
"  She  talks  as  if  He  were  her  beau  ;  and  Miss  Tremont 
as  if  He  were  her  old  man  she  'd  been  jogging  along 
with  for  forty  years  or  so.  —  Do  you  live  alone? "  she 
asked. 

«Yes  — that  is,  I  board." 

"  And  don't  you  ever  feel  lonesome? " 

"  Never.  Is  not  He  always  with  me?"  Her  strong 
brown  face  was  suddenly  illuminated.  "  Is  He  not  my 
lover?  Is  He  not  always  at  my  side,  encouraging  me 
and  whispering  of  His  love,  night  and  day?  Why, 
I  can  almost  hear  His  voice,  feel  His  hand.  How 
could  I  be  lonesome  even  on  a  desert  island  with  no 
work  to  do?" 

Patience   gasped.    The   extraordinary  simplicity  of 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     97 

this  woman  of  fifty  fascinated  her  whom  life  and 
heredity  had  made  so  complex.  But  she  moved  rest- 
lessly, and  felt  an  impulse  to  thrust  out  her  legs  and 
arms.  She  had  a  sensation  of  being  swamped  in 
religion. 

"  I  should  n't  think  you  'd  like  boarding,"  she  said 
irrelevantly. 

"I  don't  like  it  particularly,  but  it  gives  me  more 
time  for  my  work.  I  make  myself  comfortable,  I  can 
tell  you,  for  I  have  my  own  bed  with  two  splendid 
mattresses,  —  my  landlady's  are  the  hardest  things  you 
ever  felt,  —  and  all  my  own  furniture  and  knick-knacks. 
And  I  have  my  own  tub,  and  every  morning  even  in 
dead  of  winter,  I  take  a  cold  bath.  And  I  don't  wear 
corsets  —  " 

"  Mariaville,"  called  the  conductor. 

"  Oh,  here  we  are,"  cried  Miss  Tremont.  She  made 
a  wild  dive  for  her  umbrella  and  bag,  seized  Patience 
by  the  hand,  and  rushed  up  the  aisle,  followed  leisurely 
by  Miss  Beale. 

The  snow  was  falling  heavily.  Patience  had  watched 
it  drift  and  swirl  over  the  Hudson,  and  should  have 
liked  to  give  it  her  undivided  attention. 

As  they  left  the  station  they  were  greeted  by  a 
chorus  of  shrieks  :  "Have  a  sleigh?  Have  a  sleigh?  " 

"What  do  you  think,  sister?  "  asked  Miss  Tremont, 
dubiously.  "  Do  you  think  Patience  can  walk  two 
miles  in  this  snow?  I  don't  like  to  spend  money  on 
luxuries  that  I  should  give  to  the  Lord." 

"  Perhaps  the  sleigh  man  needs  it,"  said  Patience, 
who  had  no  desire  to  walk  two  miles  in  a  driving  storm. 

"  We  'd  better  have  a  sleigh,"  said  Miss  Beale,  de- 
cidedly. "  We  will  each  pay  half." 

7 


98     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  But  why  should  you  pay  half,"  said  Miss  Tremont, 
in  her  protesting  voice,  "when  there  are  three  of 
us?" 

"  I  will  pay  for  myself,"  said  Patience.  "  Mr.  Foord 
gave  me  a  twenty  dollar  gold  piece,  and  I  have  n't  spent 
it." 

"  Oh,  dear  child  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Tremont.  "  As 
if  I  'd  let  you." 

"  Come,  get  in,"  said  Miss  Beale ;  "  we  '11  be  snowed 
under,  here." 

And  a  few  minutes  later  Patience,  on  the  front  seat, 
was  enjoying  her  first  sleigh-ride.  She  slid  down  under 
the  fur  robe,  and  winking  the  snow  stars  from  her  lashes, 
looked  out  eagerly  upon  Mariaville.  The  town  rose 
from  the  Hudson  in  a  succession  of  irregular  precip- 
itous terraces.  The  trees  were  skeletons,  the  houses 
old,  but  the  effect  was  very  picturesque ;  and  the  danc- 
ing crystals,  the  faint  music  of  bells  from  far  and  near, 
the  wide  steep  streets,  delighted  a  mind  magnetic  for 
novelty. 

They  left  Miss  Beale  before  a  pretty  house,  standing 
in  a  frozen  garden,  then  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  hill, 
slid  away  to  the  edge  of  the  town,  and  drew  rein  before 
an  old-fashioned  white  one-winged  house,  which  stood 
well  back  in  a  neglected  yard  behind  walnut-trees  and 
hemlocks.  Beyond,  closing  the  town,  were  the  stark 
woods.  Opposite  was  a  prim  little  grove  in  which  the 
snow  stars  were  dancing. 

"  Here  we  are,"  said  Miss  Tremont,  climbing  out. 
"Welcome  home,  Patience  dear."  She  paid  the  man, 
and  hurried  down  the  path.  The  door  was  opened 
by  an  elderly  square-faced  woman,  who  looked  sharply 
at  Patience,  then  smiled  graciously. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     99 

"  Patience,  this  is  Ellen.  She  takes  good  care  of 
me.  Come  in.  Come  in." 

The  narrow  hall  ran  through  the  main  building,  and 
was  unfurnished  but  for  a  table  and  the  stair.  Miss 
Tremont  led  the  way  into  a  large  double  room  of  com- 
fortable temperature,  although  no  fire  was  visible. 
Bright  red  curtains  covered  the  windows,  a  neat  black 
carpet  sprinkled  with  flowers  the  floor.  The  chairs 
were  stiffly  arranged,  but  upholstered  cheerfully,  the 
tables  and  mantels  crowded  with  an  odd  assortment  of 
cheap  and  handsome  ornaments.  The  papered  walls 
were  a  mosaic  of  family  portraits.  In  the  back  parlour 
were  a  bookcase,  a  piano  piled  high  with  hymn-books, 
and  a  dozen  or  so  queer  little  pulpit  chairs.  A  door 
opened  from  the  front  parlour  into  a  faded  but  hospitable 
dining-room. 

Patience  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  experienced  the 
enfolding  of  the  home  atmosphere,  an  experience 
denied  to  many  for  ever  and  ever.  She  turned  impul- 
sively, and  throwing  her  arms  about  Miss  Tremont, 
kissed  and  hugged  her. 

"  Somehow  I  feel  all  made  over,"  she  said  apologet- 
ically, and  getting  very  red.  "  But  it  is  so  nice  —  and 
you  are  so  nice  —  and  oh,  it  is  all  so  different !  " 

And  Miss  Tremont,  enraptured,  first  wished  that  this 
forlorn  homely  little  waif  was  her  very  own,  then  vowed 
that  neither  should  ever  remember  that  she  was  not, 
and  half  carried  her  up  to  the  bedroom  prepared  for 
her,  a  white  fresh  little  room  overlooking  the  shelving 
town. 


ioo    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 


III 

THE  next  afternoon  a  sewing  woman  came  and  cut 
down  an  old-fashioned  but  handsome  fur-lined  cloak 
of  Miss  Tremont's  to  Patience's  diminutive  needs. 
When  Miss  Tremont  returned  home,  after  a  hard  day's 
work,  she  brought  with  her  a  hood,  a  pair  of  woollen 
gloves,  and  a  pair  of  arctics ;  and  Patience  felt  that  she 
could  weather  a  New  York  winter. 

But  Patience  gave  little  attention  to  her  clothes. 
When  she  was  not  watching  the  snow  she  was  studying 
the  steady  stream  of  people  who  called  at  all  hours,  and 
invariably  talked  "  church  "  and  "  temperance."  The 
atmosphere  was  so  charged  with  religion  that  she  was 
haunted  by  an  uneasy  prescience  of  a  violent  explosion 
during  which  Miss  Tremont  and  her  friends  would  sail 
upward,  leaving  her  among  the  debris. 

Her  coat  finished,  she  went  in  town  with  Miss 
Tremont  to  Temperance  Hall.  The  snow  had  ceased 
to  fall.  The  sun  rode  solitary  on  a  cold  blue  sky,  the 
ground  was  white  and  hard.  The  bare  trees  glittered 
in  their  crystal  garb,  icicles  jewelled  the  eaves  of  the 
houses.  The  telegraph  wires,  studded  with  pendent 
spheres,  looked  like  a  vast  diamond  necklace  of  many 
strings  which  only  Nature  was  mighty  enough  to  wear. 
The  hills  were  snowdrifts.  The  Hudson,  far  below, 
moved  sluggishly  under  great  blocks  of  ice.  The 
Palisades  were  black  and  white.  Miss  Tremont  and 
Patience  walked  rapidly,  their  frozen  breath  waving 
before  them  in  fantastic  shapes.  It  was  all  very  de- 
lightful to  Patience,  who  thrust  her  hands  into  her  deep 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    101 

pockets  and  would  have  scorned  to  ride.  At  times 
she  danced;  new  blood,  charged  with  electricity, 
seemed  shooting  through  her  veins.  Miss  Tremont's 
older  teeth  clattered  occasionally.  She  bent  forward 
slightly,  her  brow  contracted  over  eyes  which  seemed 
ever  seeking  something,  her  long  legs  carrying  her 
swiftly  and  with  surprising  grace.  Patience  had  solved 
the  enigma  of  her  voice  after  hearing  her  pray,  and 
she  supposed  that  her  eyes  were  on  loyal  watch  for 
the  miseries  of  the  world. 

After  a  time  they  descended  an  almost  perpendicular 
hill  to  the  business  part  of  the  town.  Beyond  a  few 
level  streets  the  ground  rose  again,  wooded  and  thickly 
built  upon.  On  the  left  was  another  hill,  which,  Miss 
Tremont  informed  her,  was  Hog  Heights,  the  quarter 
of  the  poor. 

The  streets  in  the  valley  twisted  and  doubled  like 
the  curves  of  an  angry  python.  In  the  centre  was  a 
square  which  might  have  been  called  Rome,  since  all 
ways  led  to  it. 

Temperance  Hall,  a  building  of  Christian-like  humil- 
ity, stood  on  a  back  street  flanked  by  many  low-browed 
shops.  On  the  first  floor  were  the  parlour,  reading- 
room,  and  refectory,  on  the  second  a  large  hall,  on  the 
third  bedrooms.  The  hall  was  already  half  full  of 
boys  and  girls,  kept  in  order  by  the  matron,  Mrs. 
Blair,  a  middle-aged  woman  with  the  expression  of  one 
who  stands  no  nonsense. 

"  Now,  Patience,"  said  Miss  Tremont,  "  you  listen 
attentively,  and  next  time  you  can  take  Mrs.  Blair's 
place." 

The  occasion  was  the  weekly  assemblage  of  the 
Loyal  Legion  children,  who  were  being  educated  in 


IO2    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

the  ways  of  temperance.  Miss  Tremont  opened  with 
the  Lord's  Prayer,  which  she  invested  with  all  its  mean- 
ing ;  then  the  children  sang  from  a  temperance  hymn- 
book,  and  the  lesson  began.  Miss  Tremont  read  a 
series  of  questions  appurtenant  to  the  inevitable  results 
of  unholy  indulgence,  to  which  Mrs.  Blair  read  the 
answers,  which  in  turn  were  repeated  by  the  children. 
Then  they  sang  "  Down  with  King  Alcohol,"  a  minister 
came  in  and  made  a  dramatic  address,  and  the  children, 
some  of  whom  were  attentive  and  some  extremely 
naughty,  filed  out. 

"I  only  come  on  alternate  Fridays,"  said  Miss 
Tremont,  as  they  went  downstairs ;  "  Sister  Beale  takes 
the  other.  Come  and  see  our  reading-room.  These 
are  our  boarders,"  indicating  several  prim  old  maids 
that  sat  in  the  front  room  by  the  window. 

In  the  dining-room  a  half  dozen  tramps  were  imbib- 
ing free  soup.  The  reading-room  was  empty. 


IV 


BEFORE  a  week  had  passed  Patience  was  so  busy  that 
her  old  life  slept  as  heavily  as  a  bear  in  winter.  She 
passed  her  difficult  examinations  and  entered  the  High 
School,  selecting  the  three  years  course,  which  included 
French,  German,  mathematics,  the  sciences,  literature, 
and  rhetoric. 

The  recesses  and  evenings  were  spent  in  study,  the 
afternoons  in  assisting  Miss  Tremont ;  occasionally  she 
snatched  an  hour  to  write  to  her  friends  in  California. 
Besides  the  temperance  work,  she  had  a  class  in  the 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     103 

church  sewing  school,  kept  the  books  of  various  so- 
cieties, and  occasionally  visited  the  poor  on  Hog 
Heights.  The  work  did  not  interest  her,  but  she  was 
glad  to  satisfactorily  repay  Miss  Tremont's  hospitality. 
But  had  she  wished  to  protest  she  would  have  realised 
its  uselessness :  she  was  carried  with  the  tide.  It 
might  be  said  that  Miss  Tremont  was  the  tide.  Her 
enthusiasm  had  no  reflex  action,  and  tore  through 
obstacles  like  a  mill-race.  When  night  came  she  was 
so  weary  that  more  than  once  Patience  offered  to  put 
her  to  bed ;  but  the  offer  was  declined  with  a  curious 
mixture  of  religious  fervour  and  hauteur.  Miss  Tremout 
had  none  of  the  ordinary  vanity  of  woman,  but  she 
resented  the  imputation  that  she  could  not  work  for 
the  Lord  as  ardently  at  sixty  as  she  had  at  forty. 

When  she  prayed  Patience  listened  with  bated  breath. 
A  torrent  of  eloquence  boiled  from  her  lips.  All  the 
shortcomings  and  needs  of  unregenerate  Mariaville, 
individual  and  collective,  were  laid  down  with  a  vehe- 
ment precision  which  could  leave  the  Lord  little  doubt 
of  His  obligations.  The  Temperance  Cause  was  re- 
hearsed with  a  passion  which  would  have  thrilled  the 
devil.  Sounding  through  all  was  a  wholly  unself- 
conscious  note  of  command,  as  when  one  pleads  with 
the  pocket  of  an  intimate  friend  for  some  worthy 
cause. 

Patience  saw  so  many  disreputable  people  at  this 
time  that  her  mother's  pre-eminence  was  extinguished. 
They  had  a  habit  of  commanding  the  hospitalities  of 
Miss  Tremont's  barn,  sure  of  two  meals  and  a  night's 
lodging.  Miss  Tremont  insisted  upon  their  attendance 
at  evening  prayers,  and  Patience  assumed  the  task  of 
persuading  them  to  clean  up.  Her  methods  were  less 


IO4    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

gentle  than  Miss  Treraont's :  when  they  refused  to 
wash  she  turned  the  hose  on  them. 

Projected  suddenly  into  the  dry  bracing  cold  of  an 
eastern  winter  she  quickly  became  robust.  Before 
spring  had  come,  her  back  was  straight  and  a  faint 
colour  was  in  her  rounding  cheeks.  If  there  had  been 
time  to  think  about  it,  or  any  one  to  tell  her,  she  would 
have  discovered  that  she  was  growing  pretty.  But  at 
this  time,  despite  the  distant  advances  of  the  High 
School  boys,  Patience  found  no  leisure  for  vanity. 
Sometimes  she  paused  long  enough  to  wonder  if  she 
had  any  individuality  left ;  if  environment  was  not 
stronger  than  heredity  after  all ;  if  immediate  impres- 
sions could  not  ever  efface  those  of  the  past,  no  matter 
how  deeply  the  latter  may  have  been  etched  into  the 
plastic  mind.  But  she  was  quite  conscious  that  she 
was  happy,  despite  the  vague  restlessness  and  longings 
of  youth.  She  loved  Miss  Tremont  with  all  the  sudden 
expansion  of  a  long  repressed  temperament  endowed 
with  a  tragic  capacity  for  passionate  affection.  In 
Monterey  the  iron  mould  of  reserve  into  which  cir- 
cumstance had  forced  her  nature,  had  cramped  and 
warped  what  love  she  had  felt  for  Mr.  Foord  and 
Rosita;  but  in  this  novel  atmosphere,  where  love 
enfolded  her,  where  everybody  respected  her,  and 
knew  nothing  of  her  past,  where  there  was  not  a  word 
nor  an  occurrence  to  remind  her  of  the  ugly  experi- 
ences of  her  young  life,  she  quickly  became  a  normal 
being,  living,  belatedly,  along  the  large  and  generous 
lines  of  her  nature. 

She  had  no  friends  of  her  own  age  with  whom  to 
discuss  the  problems  dear  to  the  heart  of  developing 
woman.  The  girls  at  the  High  School  rarely  talked 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     105 

during  recess,  and  she  left  hurriedly  the  moment  the 
scholars  were  dismissed  for  the  day.  The  "  Y's  "  she 
persistently  refused  to  join,  as  well  as  the  young  people's 
societies  of  Miss  Tremont's  church. 

"  I  '11  be  your  helper  in  everything,"  she  said  to  her 
perplexed  guardian ;  "  but  those  girls  bore  me,  and, 
you  know,  I  really  have  n't  time  for  them." 

And  Miss  Tremont,  despite  the  fact  that  Patience 
gave  no  sign  of  spiritual  thaw,  was  the  most  doting  of 
old  maid  parents.  After  the  first  few  weeks  she  ceased 
to  dig  in  Patience's  soul  for  the  stunted  seeds  of 
Christianity,  finding  that  she  only  irritated  her,  and 
trusting  to  the  daily  sprinkling  of  habit  and  example  to 
promote  their  ultimate  growth. 


WITH  summer  came  a  cessation  of  school,  Loyal 
Legion,  and  sewing  school  duties ;  but  the  Poor  took 
no  vacation  and  gave  none.  Nevertheless,  Patience 
had  far  more  leisure,  and  borrowed  many  books  from 
the  town  library.  She  read  much  of  Hugo  and  Balzac 
and  Goethe,  and  in  the  new  intellectual  delight  forgot 
herself  more  completely  than  in  her  work. 

Moreover,  the  town  was  very  beautiful  in  summer, 
and  she  spent  many  hours  rambling  along  the  shadowy 
streets  whose  venerable  trees  shut  the  sunlight  from 
the  narrow  side  ways.  The  gardens  too  were  full  of 
trees ;  and  the  town  from  a  distance  looked  like  a 
densely  wooded  hillside,  a  riot  of  green,  out  of  which 
housetops  showed  like  eggs  in  a  nest.  Over  some  of 


io6    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

the  steep  old  streets  the  maples  met,  growing  denser 
and  denser  down  in  the  perspective,  until  closed  by 
the  flash  of  water. 

The  woods  on  the  slope  of  the  Hudson  were  thick 
with  great  trees  dropping  a  leafy  curtain  before  the 
brilliant  river,  and  full  of  isolated  nooks  where  a  girl 
could  read  and  dream,  unsuspected  of  the  chance 
pedestrian. 

After  one  long  drowsy  afternoon  by  a  brook  in  a 
hollow  of  the  woods,  Patience  returned  home  to  find  a 
carriage  standing  before  the  door.  It  was  a  turnout  of 
extreme  elegance.  The  grey  horses  were  thorough- 
breds ;  a  coachman  in  livery  sat  on  the  box ;  a  footman 
stood  on  the  sidewalk.  She  looked  in  wonder.  Miss 
Tremont  had  no  time  for  the  fine  people  of  Mariaville, 
and  they  had  ceased  to  call  on  her  long  since. 
Moreover,  Patience  knew  every  carriage  in  the  town, 
and  this  was  not  of  them. 

She  went  rapidly  into  the  house,  youthfully  eager  for 
a  new  experience.  Miss  Tremont  was  seated  on  the 
sofa  in  the  front  parlour,  holding  the  hand  of  a  tall 
handsomely  gowned  woman.  Patience  thought,  as  she 
stood  for  a  moment  unobserved,  that  she  had  never 
seen  so  cold  a  face.  It  was  the  face  of  a  woman  of 
fifty,  oval  and  almost  regular.  The  mouth  was  a 
straight  line.  The  clear  pale  eyes  looked  like  the 
reflection  of  the  blue  atmosphere  on  icicles.  The 
skin  was  as  smooth  as  a  girl's,  the  brown  hair  parted 
and  waved,  the  tall  figure  slender  and  superbly  car- 
ried. She  was  smiling  and  patting  Miss  Tremont's 
hand,  but  there  was  little  light  in  her  eyes. 

As  Patience  entered,  she  turned  her  head  and 
regarded  her  without  surprise;  she  had  evidently 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     107 

heard  of  her.  Miss  Tremont's  face  illumined,  and  she 
held  out  her  hand. 

"This  is  Patience,"  she  said  triumphantly.  "I 
have  n't  told  you  half  about  the  dear  child.  Patience, 
this  is  my  cousin,  Mrs.  Gardiner  Peele." 

Mrs.  Gardiner  Peele  bent  her  head  patronisingly,  and 
Patience  hated  her  violently. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  a  companion,"  said  the  lady, 
coldly.  "  But  how  is  it  you  have  n't  the  white  ribbon 
on  her?" 

Miss  Tremont  blushed.  "Oh,  I  can't  control  Pa- 
tience in  all  things,"  she  said,  in  half  angry  deprecation. 
"  She  just  won't  wear  the  ribbon." 

Mrs.  Peele  smiled  upon  Patience  for  the  first  time. 
It  was  a  wintry  light,  but  it  bespoke  approval.  "  I  wish 
she  could  make  you  take  it  off,"  she  said  to  her  rela- 
tive. "  That  dreadful,  dreadful  badge.  How  can  you 
wear  it?  —  you  —  " 

"  Now,  cousin,"  said  Miss  Tremont,  laughing  good- 
naturedly,  "we  won't  go  over  all  that  again.  You 
know  I  'm  a  hopeless  crank.  All  I  can  do  is  to  pray 
for  you." 

"Thank  you.  I  don't  doubt  I  need  it,  although  I 
attend  church  quite  as  regularly  as  you  could  wish." 

"  I  know  you  are  good,"  said  Miss  Tremont,  with 
enthusiasm,  "and  of  course  I  don't  expect  every- 
body to  be  as  interested  in  Temperance  as  I  am. 
But  I  do  wish  you  loved  the  world  less  and  the  Lord 
more." 

Mrs.  Peele  gave  a  low,  well  modulated  laugh.  "  Now, 
Harriet,  I  want  you  to  be  worldly  for  a  few  minutes.  I 
have  brought  you  back  two  new  gowns  from  Paris,  and 
I  want  you,  when  you  come  to  visit  me  next  week,  to 


io8     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

wear  them.  I  have  had  them  trimmed  with  white 
ribbon  bows  so  that  no  one  will  notice  one  more  or 
less  —  " 

"  I  'm  not  ashamed  of  my  white  ribbon,"  flashed 
out  Miss  Tremont,  then  relented.  "You  dear  good 
Honora.  Yes,  I  '11  wear  them  if  they  're  not  too 
fashionable." 

"Oh,  I  studied  your  style.  And  let  me  tell  you, 
Harriet  Tremont,  that  fashionable  gowns  are  what  you 
should  be  wearing.  It  does  provoke  me  so  to  see 
you  —  " 

But  Miss  Tremont  leaned  over  and  kissed  her  short. 
"Now  what's  the  use  of  talking  to  an  old  crank 
like  me  ?  I  'm  a  humble  servant  of  my  dear  Lord, 
and  I  couldn't  be  anything  else  if  I  had  a  million. 
But  you  dear  thing,  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you  once 
more.  You  do  look  so  well.  Tell  me  all  about  the 
children." 

Patience,  quite  forgotten,  listened  to  the  conversation 
with  deep  interest.  There  was  a  vague  promise  of 
variety  in  this  new  advent.  As  she  watched  the  woman, 
who  seemed  to  have  brought  with  her  something  of  the 
atmosphere  of  all  that  splendid  existence  of  which  she 
had  longingly  read,  she  was  stirred  with  a  certain  dis- 
satisfaction :  some  dormant  chord  was  struck  —  as  on 
the  day  she  drove  by  Del  Monte.  When  Mrs.  Peele 
arose  to  go,  she  thought  that  not  Balzac  himself  had 
ever  looked  upon  a  more  elegant  woman.  Even 
Patience's  untrained  eye  recognised  that  those  long 
simple  folds,  those  so  quiet  textures,  were  of  French 
woof  and  make.  And  the  woman's  carriage  was 
like  unto  that  of  the  fictional  queen.  She  nodded 
carelessly  to  Patience,  and  swept  out.  When  Miss 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     109 

Tremont  returned  after  watching  her  guest  drive  away, 
Patience  pounced  upon  her. 

"  Who  is  she?"  she  demanded.  "And  why  didn't 
you  tell  me  you  had  such  a  swell  for  a  cousin?  " 

"Did  I  never  tell  you?"  asked  Miss  Tremont, 
wonderingly.  "  Why,  I  was  sure  I  had  often  talked  of 
Honora.  But  I  'm  so  busy  I  suppose  I  forgot." 

She  sat  down  and  fanned  herself,  smiling.  "  Honora 
Tremont  is  my  first  cousin.  We  used  to  be  great 
friends  until  she  married  a  rich  man  and  became  so 
dreadfully  fashionable.  The  Lord  be  praised,  she  has 
always  loved  me ;  but  she  lives  a  great  deal  abroad,  and 
spends  her  winters,  when  she  is  here,  in  New  York. 
They  have  a  beautiful  place  on  the  Hudson,  Peele 
Manor,  that  has  been  in  the  family  for  nearly  three  hun- 
dred years.  Mr.  Peele  is  an  eminent  lawyer.  I  don't 
know  him  very  well.  He  does  n't  talk  much ;  I  sup- 
pose he  has  to  talk  so  much  in  Court.  I  've  not  seen 
the  children  for  a  year.  I  always  thought  them  pretty 
badly  spoiled,  particularly  Beverly.  May  isn't  very 
bright.  But  I  always  liked  Hal  —  short  for  Harriet, 
after  me  —  better  than  any  of  them.  She  is  about 
nineteen  now.  May  is  eighteen  and  Beverly  twenty- 
four. 

"Then  there  is  Honora,  cousin  Honora's  sister 
Mary's  child,  and  the  tallest  woman  I  ever  saw.  Her 
parents  died  when  she  was  a  little  thing  and  left  her 
without  a  dollar.  Honora  took  her,  and  has  treated 
her  like  her  own  children.  Sometimes  I  think  she  is 
very  much  under  her  influence.  I  don't  know  why, 
but  I  never  liked  her.  She  is  Beverly's  age.  Oh  ! " 
she  burst  out,  "  just  think !  I  have  got  to  go  to  Peele 
Manor  for  a  week.  I  promised.  I  could  n't  help  it. 


no    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

And  oh,  I  do  dread  it.  They  are  all  so  different,  and 
they  don't  sympathise  with  my  work.  Much  as  I  love 
them  I  'm  always  glad  to  get  away.  Was  n't  it  kind 
and  good  of  her  to  bring  me  two  dresses  from  Paris?  " 

Patience  shrewdly  interpreted  the  prompting  of  Mrs. 
Peele's  generosity,  but  made  no  comment. 

Miss  Tremont  drew  a  great  sigh  :  "  My  temperance 
work  —  my  poor  —  what  will  they  do  without  me? 
Maria  Twist  gets  so  mad  when  I  don't  read  the  Bible 
to  her  twice  a  week.  Patience,  you  will  have  to  stay 
in  Temperance  Hall.  I  should  n't  like  to  think  of  you 
here  alone.  I  do  wish  Honora  had  asked  you  too  —  " 

"I  wouldn't  go  for  worlds.  When  do  you  think 
your  dresses  will  come?  I  do  so  want  to  see  a  real 
Paris  dress." 

"  She  said  they  'd  come  to-morrow.  Oh,  to  think  of 
wearing  stiff  tight  things.  Well,  if  they  are  uncomfort- 
able or  too  stylish  I  just  won't  wear  them,  that 's  all." 

"You  just  will,  auntie  dear.  You'll  not  look  any 
less  fine  than  those  people,  or  I  '11  not  go  near  Hog 
Heights." 

Miss  Tremont  kissed  her,  grateful  for  the  fondness 
displayed.  "  Well,  well,  we  '11  see,"  she  said. 

But  the  next  day,  when  the  two  handsome  black 
gowns  lay  on  the  bed  of  the  spare  room,  she  shook  her 
head  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  I  won't  wear  those  things,"  she  cried.  "  Why,  they 
were  made  for  a  society  woman,  not  for  an  humble 
follower  of  the  Lord.  I  should  be  miserable  in 
them." 

Patience,  who  had  been  hovering  over  the  gowns, — 
one  of  silk  grenadine  trimmed  with  long  loops  of  black 
and  white  ribbon,  the  other  of  satin  with  a  soft  knot  of 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     1 1 1 

white  ribbon  on  the  shoulder  and  another  at  the  back 
of  the  high  collar,  —  came  forward  and  firmly  divested 
Miss  Tremont  of  her  alpaca.  She  lifted  the  heavy 
satin  gown  with  reverent  hands  and  slipped  it  over 
Miss  Tremont' s  head,  then  hooked  it  with  deft  fingers. 

"There  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "You  look  like  a  swell 
at  last.  Just  what  you  ought  to  look  like." 

Miss  Tremont  glanced  at  the  mirror  with  a  brief  spasm 
of  youthful  vanity.  The  rich  fashionable  gown  became 
her  long  slender  figure,  her  unconscious  pride  of  car- 
riage, far  better  than  did  her  old  alpaca  and  merino 
frocks.  But  she  shook  her  head  immediately,  her 
eyes  flashing  under  a  quick  frown. 

"  The  idea  of  perching  a  white  bow  like  a  butterfly 
on  my  shoulder  and  another  at  the  back  of  my  neck, 
as  if  I  had  a  scar.  It 's  an  insult  to  the  white  ribbon. 
And  this  collar  would  choke  me.  I  can't  breathe. 
Take  it  off!  Take  it  off!" 

"  Not  until  I  have  admired  you  some  more.  You 
look  just  grand.  If  the  collar  is  too  high,  I  '11  send  for 
Mrs.  Best,  and  we  '11  cut  it  off  and  sew  some  soft  black 
stuff  in  the  neck  —  although  I  just  hate  to.  Auntie 
dear,  don't  you  think  you  could  stand  it?  " 

Miss  Tremont  shook  her  head  with  decision.  "I 
could  n't.  It  hurts  my  old  throat.  And  how  could  I 
ever  bend  my  head  to  get  at  my  soup  ?  And  these 
bows  make  me  feel  actually  cross.  If  the  dress  can 
be  made  comfortable  I  '11  wear  it,  for  I  've  no  right  to 
disgrace  Honora,  nor  would  I  hurt  her  feelings  by 
scorning  her  gowns  ;  but  I  '11  not  stand  any  such  mock- 
ery as  these  flaunting  white  things." 

Patience  exchanged  the  satin  for  the  grenadine  gown. 
This  met  with  more  tolerance  at  first,  as  the  throat  was 


H2    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

finished  with  soft  folds,  and  the  white  ribbon  was  less 
demonstrative. 

"It  floats  so,"  said  Patience,  ecstatically.  "Oh, 
auntie,  you  are  a  beauty." 

"la  beauty  with  my  ugly  scowling  old  face  ?  But 
this  thing  is  like  a  ball  dress,  Patience  —  this  thin  stuff ! 
I  prefer  the  satin." 

"  You  will  wear  this  on  the  hot  evenings.  All  thin 
things  are  not  made  for  the  ball-room.  You  need  n't 
look  at  yourself  like  that.  I  only  wish  I  'd  ever  be 
half  as  pretty.  Auntie,  why  did  n't  you  ever  marry?  " 

Miss  Tremont's  face  worked  after  all  the  years. 
Memories  could  not  die  in  so  uniform  a  nature. 

"  My  youth  was  very  sad,"  she  said,  turning  away 
abruptly.  "  I  only  talk  about  it  with  the  dear  Lord." 
And  Patience  asked  no  more  questions. 


VI 


THE  dressmaker  was  sent  for,  and  the  satin  gown 
divested  of  its  collar.  Miss  Tremont  ruthlessly  clipped 
off  the  beautiful  French  bows  and  sewed  a  tiny  one  of 
narrow  white  ribbon  in  a  conspicuous  place  on  the  left 
chest.  The  grenadine  was  decorated  in  like  manner. 
Patience  wailed,  and  then  laughed  as  she  thought  of 
Mrs.  Gardiner  Peele.  She  wished  she  might  be  there 
to  see  that  lady's  face. 

Miss  Tremont  changed  her  mind  four  times  as  to  the 
possibility  of  leaving  Mariaville  for  a  week  of  sinful 
idleness,  before  she  was  finally  assisted  into  the  train  by 
Patience's  firm  hand.  Even  then  she  abruptly  left  her 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    nj 

seat  and  started  for  the  door.  But  the  train  was  mov- 
ing. Patience  saw  her  resume  her  seat  with  an  impa- 
tient twitch  of  her  shoulders. 

"  Poor  auntie,"  she  thought,  as  she  walked  up  the 
street;  "but  on  the  whole  I  think  I  pity  Mrs.  Peele 
more." 

Her  bag  had  been  sent  to  Temperance  Hall,  and  she 
went  directly  there,  and  to  her  own  room.  As  the  day 
was  very  warm,  she  exchanged  her  frock  for  a  print 
wrapper,  then  extended  herself  on  the  bed  with  "  '93." 
It  was  her  duty  to  assuage  the  wrath  of  Maria  Twist, 
but  she  made  up  her  mind  that  for  twenty- four  hours ; 
she  would  shirk  every  duty  on  her  calendar. 

But  she  had  failed  to  make  allowance  for  the  net  of 
circumstance.  She  had  not  turned  ten  pages  when  she 
heard  the  sound  of  agitated  footsteps  in  the  hall.  A 
moment  later  Mrs.  Blair  opened  the  door  unceremoni- 
ously. Her  usually  placid  face  was  much  perturbed. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Patience,"  she  said,  "  I  'm  in  such  a  way. 
Late  last  night  a  poor  man  fell  at  the  door,  and  I  took 
him  in  as  there  was  no  policeman  around.  I  thought 
he  was  only  ill,  but  it  seems  he  was  drunk.  He  's  been 
awake  now  for  two  hours,  and  is  awful  bad  —  not  drunk, 
but  suffering." 

"  Why  don't  you  send  for  the  doctor?  "  asked  Patience, 
lazily. 

"  I  have,  but  he 's  gone  to  New  York  and  won't  be 
back  till  night.  The  man  says  he  can  doctor  himself — 
that  all  he  wants  is  whisky ;  but  of  course  I  can't  give 
him  that.  Do  come  over  and  talk  to  him.  Miss  Beale 
is  over  at  White  Plains,  and  I  don't  know  what  to 
do." 

Patience  rose  reluctantly  and  followed  the  matron  to 
8 


H4    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

the  side  of  the  house  reserved  for  men.  As  she  went 
down  the  hall  she  heard  groans  and  sharp  spasmodic 
cries.  Mrs.  Blair  opened  a  door,  and  Patience  saw 
an  elderly  man  lying  in  the  bed.  His  grey  hair  and 
beard  were  ragged,  his  eyes  dim  and  bleared,  his  long, 
well-cut  but  ignoble  face  was  greenishly  pale.  He  was 
very  weak,  and  lay  clutching  at  the  bed  clothes  with 
limp  hairy  hands.  As  he  saw  the  matron  his  eyes  lit 
up  with  resentment. 

"  I  did  n't  come  here  to  be  murdered,"  he  ejacu- 
lated. "  It 's  the  last  place  I  'd  have  come  to  if  I  'd 
known  what  I  was  doing.  But  I  tell  you  that  if  I  don't 
have  a  drink  of  whisky  I  '11  be  a  dead  man  in  an 
hour." 

"  I  can't  give  you  that,"  said  Mrs.  Blair,  desperately. 
"  And  you  know  you  only  think  you  need  it,  anyhow. 
We  try  to  make  men  overcome  their  terrible  weakness ; 
we  don't  encourage  them." 

"  That 's  all  right,  but  you  can't  reform  a  man  when 
his  inside  is  on  fire  and  feels  as  if  it  were  dropping 
out  —  but  my  God !  I  can't  argue  with  you,  damn 
you.  Give  it  to  me." 

"  I  'm  of  the  opinion  that  he  ought  to  have  it," 
said  Patience. 

The  man  turned  to  her  eagerly.  "  Bless  you,"  he 
said.  "  It 's  not  the  taste  of  it  I'm  craving,  miss ;  it 's 
relief  from  this  awful  agony.  If  you  give  it  to  me,  I 
swear  I  '11  try  never  to  touch  a  drop  again  after  I  get 
over  this  spree.  It  '11  be  bad  enough  to  break  off  then, 
but  it 's  death  now." 

Mrs.  Blair  looked  at  him  with  pity,  but  shook  her 
head. 

"  I  Ve  been  here  seven  years,"  she  said  to  Patience, 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    115 

"and  the  ladies  have  yet  to  find  one  fault  with  me. 
I  don't  dare  give  it  to  him.  Besides,  I  don't  believe 
in  it.  How  can  what's  killing  him  cure  him?  And 
it 's  a  sin.  Even  if  the  ladies  excused  me  —  which 
they  wouldn't  —  I'd  never  forgive  myself." 

"  I  '11  take  the  responsibility,"  said  Patience.  "  I 
believe  that  man  will  die  if  he  does  n't  have  whisky." 

The  man  groaned  and  tossed  his  arms.  "Oh,  my 
God  !  "  he  cried. 

Mrs.  Blair  shuddered.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know,  miss. 
If  you  will  take  the  responsibility  —  I  can't  give  it 
to  him  —  where  could  you  get  it?" 

"At  a  drug  store." 

"  They  won't  sell  it  to  you  —  we  've  got  a  law 
passed,  you  know." 

"  Then  I  '11  go  to  a  saloon." 

"Oh,  my!  my!"  cried  Mrs.  Blair,  "you'd  never 
do  that?" 

" The  man  is  in  agony.  Can't  you  see?  I'm  going 
this  minute." 

The  door  opened,  and  Miss  Beale  entered.  She 
looked  warm  and  tired,  but  came  forward  with  active 
step,  and  stood  beside  the  bed.  A  spasm  of  disgust 
crossed  her  face.  "What  is  the  matter,  my  man ?" 
she  asked.  "  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  here." 

"  Give  me  whisky,"  groaned  the  man. 

Miss  Beale  turned  away  with  twitching  mouth. 

"  The  man  is  dying.  Nothing  but  whisky  can  save 
him,"  said  Patience.  "If  you  called  a  doctor  he 
would  tell  you  the  same  thing." 

"What?"  said  Miss  Beale,  coldly,  "do  you  sup- 
pose that  he  can  have  whisky  in  Temperance  Hall? 
Is  that  what  we  are  here  for?  You  must  be  crazy." 


n6    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  But  you  don't  want  him  to  die  on  your  hands,  do 
you?"  exclaimed  Patience,  who  was  losing  her  temper. 

"  My  God  !  "  screeched  the  man,  "  I  am  in  Hell." 

"  My  good  man,"  said  Miss  Beale,  gently,  "  it  is  for 
us  to  save  you  from  Hell,  not  to  send  you  there." 

"  I  '11  be  there  in  ten  minutes."  His  voice  died  to  an 
inarticulate  murmur ;  but  he  writhed,  and  doubled,  and 
twisted,  as  men  may  have  done  when  fanatics  tortured 
in  the  name  of  religion. 

"  Good  heavens,  Miss  Beale,"  cried  Patience,  excit- 
edly, "  you  can't  set  yourself  up  in  opposition  to  nature. 
That  man  must  have  whisky.  If  he  were  younger  and 
stronger  it  would  n't  matter  so  much ;  but  can't  you  see 
he  has  n't  strength  to  resist  the  terrible  strain  ?  The 
torture  is  killing  him,  eating  out  his  life  —  " 

"  Oh,  it  is  terrible  !  "  exclaimed  the  matron.  "  Per- 
haps it  is  best  —  " 

"  Mrs.  Blair  !  "  Miss  Beale  turned  upon  her  in  con- 
sternation. Then  she  bent  over  the  man. 

"You  can't  have  whisky,"  she  said  gently;  "not  if 
I  thought  you  were  really  dying  would  I  give  it  to  you. 
If  it  is  the  Lord's  will  that  you  are  to  die  here  you 
must  abide  by  it.  I  shall  not  permit  you  to  further 
imperil  your  soul.  Nor  could  that  which  has  not  the 
blessing  of  God  on  it  be  of  benefit  to  you.  Alcohol  is  a 
destroyer,  both  of  soul  and  of  body  —  not  a  medicine." 

The  man's  knees  suddenly  shot  up  to  his  chest ; 
but  he  raised  his  head  and  darted  at  her  a  glance  of 
implacable  hate. 

"  Damn  you,"  he  stuttered.  "  Murderer  —  "  Then 
he  extended  rigid  arms  and  clutched  the  bed  clothes, 
his  body  twitching  uncontrollably. 

Miss  Beale  looked  upon  him  with  deep  compassion. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     117 

"  Poor  thing,"  she  exclaimed,  "  is  not  this  enough  to 
warn  all  men  from  that  fiend?"  She  laid  her  hand 
on  the  man's  head,  but  he  shook  it  off  with  an  oath. 

"  Whisky,"  he  cried.  "  O  my  God  !  Have  these 
women  —  women  !  —  no  pity  ?  " 

"  I  'm  going  for  whisky  —  "  said  Patience. 

Miss  Beale  stepped  swiftly  to  the  door,  locked  it,  and 
slipped  the  key  into  her  pocket. 

"You  will  buy  no  whisky,"  she  said  sternly.  "I 
will  save  you  from  that  sin."  Suddenly  her  face  lit 
up.  "  I  will  pray,"  she  said  solemnly,  "  I  will  pray  that 
this  poor  lost  creature  may  recover,  and  lead  a  better 
life  —  " 

"  I  swear  I  '11  never  touch  another  drop  after  I  'm 
out  of  this  if  you  '11  give  it  to  me  now  —  " 

"  If  it  be  the  Lord's  will  that  you  shall  live  you  will 
not  die,"  said  Miss  Beale.  "  I  will  pray,  and  in  His 
mercy  He  may  let  you  live  to  repent." 

She  fell  upon  her  knees  by  the  bed,  and  clasping  her 
hands,  prayed  aloud  ;  while  the  man  reared  and  plunged 
and  groaned  and  cursed,  his  voice  and  body  momen- 
tarily weaker.  Miss  Beale's  prayers  were  always  very 
long  and  very  fervid.  She  was  not  eloquent,  but  her 
deep  tear- voiced  earnestness  was  most  impressive  ;  and 
never  more  so  than  to-day,  when  she  flung  herself 
before  the  throne  of  Grace  with  a  lost  soul  in  her  hand. 
A  light  like  a  halo  played  upon  her  spiritualised  face, 
her  voice  became  ineffably  sweet.  Gradually,  in  her 
ecstatic  communion  with,  her  intimate  nearness  to  her 
God,  she  forgot  the  man  on  the  bed,  forgot  the  flesh 
which  prisoned  her  soaring  soul,  was  conscious  only  of 
the  divine  light  pouring  through  her,  the  almost  pal- 
pable touch  of  her  lover's  hand. 


n8    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Suddenly  Patience  exclaimed  brutally  :  "  The  man  is 
dead." 

Miss  Beale  arose  with  a  start.  She  drew  the  sheet 
gently  over  the  distorted  face.  "  It  is  the  Lord's  will," 
she  said. 

After  Patience  was  in  her  own  room  and  had  re- 
lieved her  feelings  by  slamming  the  door,  she  sat  for  a 
long  time  staring  at  the  pattern  of  the  carpet  and  pon- 
dering upon  the  problem  of  Miss  Beale. 

"Well,"  she  thought  finally,  "she's  happy,  so  I 
suppose  it 's  all  right.  No  wonder  she  's  satisfied  with 
herself  when  she  lives  up  to  her  ideals  as  consistently 
as'  that.  I  think  I  '11  label  all  the  different  forms  of 
selfishness  I  come  across.  There  seems  to  be  a  large 
variety,  but  all  put  together  don't  seem  to  be  a  patch 
to  having  fun  with  your  ideals.  Miss  Beale  would  be 
the  most  wretched  woman  in  Westchester  county  if 
she  'd  given  that  man  whisky  and  saved  his  life." 


VII 

THE  man  was  buried  with  Christian  service  at  Miss 
Beale's  expense,  and  her  serene  face  wore  no  shadow. 
The  following  day  she  said  to  Patience :  "  I  spent 
nearly  all  of  the  last  two  nights  in  prayer,  and  I  almost 
heard  the  Lord's  voice  as  He  told  me  I  did  right." 

"You  ought  to  write  a  novel,"  said  Patience,  drily, 
but  the  sarcasm  was  lost.  In  a  moment  Patience  for- 
got Miss  Beale :  the  postman  handed  her  two  letters, 
and  she  went  up  to  her  room  to  read  them. 

The  first  she  opened  was  from  Miss  Tremont. 


Patience  Spar  hawk  and  Her  Times     119 

PEELE  MANOR,  Friday. 

Oh  my  dear  darling  little  girl,  how  I  wish,  how  I  wish 
I  were  with  you  and  my  work  once  more.  I  ought  to  be 
happy  because  they  are  all  so  kind,  but  I  'm  not.  I  feel  as 
if  I  were  throwing  away  one  of  the  few  precious  weeks  I 
have  left  to  give  to  the  Lord  (arrange  for  a  prayer  meeting 
on  Wednesday,  the  day  of  my  return,  and  we  '11  have  a 
regular  feast  of  manna).  Do  you  miss  me?  I  think  of 
you  every  moment.  You  should  have  seen  dear  Cousin 
Honora's  face  when  I  came  down  to  dinner  in  the  black 
satin.  She  didn't  say  anything,  she  just  looked  at  the 
bow,  and  I  felt  sorry  for  her.  But  I  know  I  am  right. 
Hal  giggled  and  winked  at  me.  (I  do  love  Hal !)  Honora 
Mairs  said  so  sweetly  after  Cousin  Honora  had  left  the 
room :  "  Dear  Cousin  Harriet,  I  think  you  are  so  brave  and 
consistent  to  wear  the  little  white  bow  of  your  cause.  It 
is  so  like  you."  Was  not  that  sweet  of  her?  Beverly  has 
very  heavy  eyebrows,  and  he  raised  them  at  my  ribbon, 
and  turned  away  his  head  as  if  it  hurt  his  eyes.  He  is  a 
very  elegant  young  gentleman,  and  his  mother  says  he  is 
a  great  stickler  for  form,  whatever  that  may  mean.  (They 
speak  a  different  language  here  anyway.  I  don't  under- 
stand half  what  they  say.  Hal  talks  slang  all  the  time.) 
I  don't  like  Beverly  as  much  as  I  did,  although  he  's  quite 
the  handsomest  young  man  I  ever  saw  and  very  polite ;  but 
he  smokes  cigarettes  all  the  time  and  big  black  cigars. 
When  I  told  him  that  five  hundred  million  dollars  were  spent 
annually  on  tobacco,  he  got  up  and  went  off  in  a  huff.  May 
is  just  a  talkative  child  —  I  never  heard  any  one  talk  so  much 
in  my  life,  —  and  about  nothing  but  gowns  and  young  men 
and  balls  and  the  opera.  Beverly  talks  about  horses  all 
the  time,  and  Hal  thinks  a  great  deal  of  society,  although 
she  listens  to  me  very  sweetly  when  I  talk  to  her  about  my 
work.  Yesterday  she  said  :  "  Why,  Cousin  Harriet,  you  're 
a  regular  steam  engine.  It  must  be  jolly  good  fun  to  carry 
a  lot  of  sinners  to  heaven  on  an  express  train."  I  told  her 
it  was  a  freight  train,  and  it  certainly  is,  as  you  know, 
Patience  dear.  She  replied:  "Well,  if  you  get  there  all 


I2O    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

the  same,  a  century  more  or  less  does  n't  make  any  differ- 
ence. You  must  be  right  in  it  with  the  Lord."  That  was 
the  only  time  I  'd  heard  the  dear  Lord's  name  mentioned 
since  I  arrived,  so  I  did  n't  scold  her.  But  Patience,  dear, 
I  hope  you'll  never  use  slang.  I  Ve  talked  to  Hal  about 
you,  and  she  says  she  's  coming  to  see  you. 

Honora  does  n't  use  slang.  She  is  very  stately  and 
dignified,  and  Cousin  Honora  (it 's  very  awkward  when 
you  're  writing  for  two  people  to  have  the  same  name,  is  n't 
it?)  holds  her  up  as  a  model  for  the  girls.  Hal  and 
she  fight.  I  can't  call  it  anything  else,  although  Honora 
does  n't  lose  her  temper  and  Hal  does.  Hal  said  to  me  (of 
Honora)  yesterday  (I  use  her  own  words,  although  they're 
awful;  but  if  I  didn't  I  could  n't  give  you  the  same  idea  of 

her)  :  "  She  'sad hypocrite :  and  she  wants  to  marry 

Beverly,  but  she  won't,  —  not  if  I  have  to  turn  matchmaker 
and  marry  him  to  a  variety  actress.  She  makes  me  wild. 
I  wish  she  'd  elope  with  the  priest,  but  she  's  too  confound- 
edly clever."  Is  n't  it  dreadful — Honora  is  a  Catholic. 
She  became  converted  last  year.  Perhaps  that 's  the  rea- 
son I  can't  like  her.  But  even  the  Catholic  religion  teaches 
charity,  for  she  said  to  me  this  morning :  "  Poor  Hal  is 
really  a  good-hearted  child,  but  she  's  worldly  and  just  a 
little  superficial." 

They  haven't  any  company  this  week  —  how  kind  of 
Cousin  Honora  to  ask  me  when  they  are  alone !  I  wish  you 
were  here  to  enjoy  the  library.  It  is  a  great  big  room  over- 
looking the  river,  and  the  walls  are  covered  with  books  — 
three  or  four  generations  of  them.  Mr.  Peele  is  intellect- 
ual, and  so  is  Honora;  but  the  others  don't  read  much,  ex- 
cept Hal,  who  reads  dreadful-looking  yellow  paper  books 
written  in  the  French  language  which  she  says  are  "corkers," 
whatever  that  may  mean.  I  do  wish  the  dear  child  would 
read  her  Bible.  I  asked  her  if  I  gave  her  a  copy  if  she  'd 
promise  me  to  read  a  little  every  day,  and  she  said  she 
would,  as  some  of  the  stories  were  as  good  as  a  French 
novel.  So  I  shall  buy  her  one. 

We  sit  in  the  library  every  evening      In  the  morning 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     121 

we  sit  in  the  Tea  House  on  the  slope  and  Honora  em- 
broiders Catholic  Church  things,  Cousin  Honora  knits  (she 
says  it's  all  the  fashion),  May  talks,  and  Hal  reads  her  yel- 
low books  and  tells  May  to  "let  up."  I  sew  for  my  poor, 
and  they  don't  seem  to  mind  that  as  much  as  the  white  rib- 
bon. They  say  that  they  always  sew  for  the  poor  in  Lent. 
Hal  says  it  is  the  "  swagger  thing."  In  the  afternoon  we 
drive,  and  I  do  think  it  such  a  waste  of  time  to  be  going, 
going  nowhere  for  two  hours. 

Well,  Patience,  I  shall  be  with  you  on  Wednesday,  praise 
the  Lord.  Come  to  the  train  and  meet  me,  and  be  sure  to 
write  me  about  everything.  How  is  Polly  Jones,  and  old 
Mrs.  Murphy,  and  Belinda  Greggs  ?  Have  you  read  to 
Maria  Twist,  and  taken  the  broth  to  old  Jonas  Hobb  ? 
Give  my  love  to  dear  sister  Beale,  and  tell  her  I  pray  for 
her.  With  a  kiss  from  your  old  auntie,  God  bless  you, 

HARRIET  TREMONT. 

"  Dear  old  soul,"  thought  Patience.  "  I  think  I 
know  them  better  than  she  does,  already.  She  is 
worth  the  whole  selfish  crowd ;  but  I  should  like  to 
know  Hal.  Beverly  must  be  a  chump." 


VIII 

THE  other  letter  was  from  Rosita.  Patience  had  not 
heard  from  her  for  a  long  while.  Three  months  pre- 
viously, Mr.  Foord  had  written  of  Mrs.  Thrailkill's 
death,  and  mentioned  that  Rosita  had  gone  to  Sacra- 
mento to  visit  Miss  Galpin  —  now  Mrs.  Trent  —  until 
her  uncle,  who  had  returned  to  Kentucky,  should  send 
for  her. 

Oh,  Patita!   Patita!   [the  letter  began],  what  do  you 
think  ?  /  am  on  the  stage.     I  had  been  crazy  to  go  on  ever 


122    Patience  Spar  hawk  and  Her  Times 

since  that  night.  A  theatrical  man  was  in  Monterey  just  be- 
fore mamma's  death,  and  he  told  me  they  were  always  want- 
ing pretty  corus  girls  at  the  Tivoli ;  so  after  the  funeral  I 
told  everybody  I  was  going  to  stay  with  Miss  Galpin  until 
Uncle  Jim  sent  for  me  —  I  hated  to  lie,  but  I  had  to  —  and 
I  went  up  to  San  Francisco  and  went  right  to  the  Tivoli. 
He  took  me  because  he  said  I  was  pretty  and  had  a  fresh 
voice.  I  had  to  ware  tights.  You  should  have  seen  me. 
At  first  I  felt  all  the  time  like  stooping  over  to  cover  up  my 
legs  with  my  arms.  But  after  a  while  I  got  used  to  it,  and 
one  night  we  had  to  dance,  and  everybody  said  I  was  the 
most  graceful.  The  manager  said  I  was  a  born  dancer  and 
actress.  The  other  day  what  do  you  think  happened?  A 
New  York  manager  was  here  and  heard  me  sing,  —  I  had  a 
little  part  by  that  time,  —  and  he  told  me  that  if  I  took  les- 
sons I  could  be  a  prima  donna  in  comic  opera.  He  said  I 
not  only  was  going  to  have  a  lovely  voice,  but  that  I  had  a 
new  style  (Spanish)  and  would  take  in  New  York.  He  of- 
fered to  send  me  to  Paris  for  a  year  and  then  bring  me  out 
in  New  York  if  I  'd  give  him  my  word —  I  'm  too  young  to 
sign  a  contract  —  that  I  would  n't  go  with  any  other  manager. 
At  first  my  manager,  who  is  a  good  old  sole  (I  did  n't  tell 
you  that  I  live  with  him  and  his  wife,  and  that  their  awful 
good  to  me  and  stand  the  fellers  off),  would  n't  have  it ;  but 
after  a  while  he  gave  in  —  said  I  'd  have  to  go  the  pace 
sooner  or  later  (whatever  that  means),  and  I  might  as  well 
go  it  in  first  class  style.  His  wife,  the  good  old  sole,  cried. 
She  said  I  was  the  first  corus  girl  she  'd  ever  taken  an  in- 
terest in,  but  somehow  it  would  be  on  her  conscience  if 
I  went  wrong.  But  I  'm  not  going  wrong.  I  don't 
care  a  bit  for  men.  There  was  a  bald-headed  old 
fool  who  used  to  come  and  sit  in  the  front  row  every 
night  and  throw  kisses  to  me,  and  one  night  he  threw 
me  a  bouquet  with  a  bracelet  in  it.  I  wore  the  bracelet, 
for  it  was  a  beauty  with  a  big  diamond  in  it  ;  but  I  never 
looked  at  him  or  answered  any  of  his  notes,  and  Mr.  Bell  — 
the  manager  —  wrote  him  he  'd  punch  his  head  if  he  came 
near  the  stage  door.  No,  all  I  want  is  to  act,  act,  act,  and 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     123 

sing,  sing,  sing,  and  dance,  dance,  dance,  and  have  beauti- 
ful cloths  and  jewels  and  a  carriage  and  two  horses.  Mr. 
Soper  has  told  me  ten  times  since  I  've  met  him  that  "virtue 
in  an  actress  pays,"  and  he  's  going  to  send  a  horrid  old 
woman  with  me  to  Paris,  as  if  I  'd  bother  with  the  fools  any- 
how. I  'm  sure  I  can't  see  what  Mrs.  Bell  cries  about  if  I  'm 
going  to  be  famous  and  make  a  lot  of  money.  Anyhow,  I  'm 
going.  I  do  so  want  to  see  you,  Patita  dear.  Maybe  you 
can  come  up  to  the  steamer  and  see  me  off.  I  wonder  if 
you  have  changed.  I  'm  not  so  very  tall;  but  they  all  say 
my  figure  is  good.  Mr.  Soper  says  it  will  be  divine  in  a  year 
or  two,  but  that  I  may  be  a  cow  at  thirty,  so  I  'd  better  not 
lose  any  time.  Good-bye.  Good-bye.  I  want  to  give  you 
a  hundred  kisses.  How  different  our  lives  are!  Isn't 
yours  dreadfully  stupid  with  that  old  temprance  work? 
And  just  think  it  was  you  who  taught  me  to  act  first !  Mr. 
Soper  says  I  must  cultivate  the  Spanish  racket  for  all  it 's 
worth,  and  that  he  expects  me  to  be  more  Spanish  in  New 
York  than  I  was  in  Monterey.  He  is  going  to  get  an  opera 
written  for  me  with  the  part  of  a  Spanish  girl  in  it  so  I  can 
wear  the  costume.  He  says  if  I  study  and  do  everything 
he  tells  me  I  '11  make  a  furore.  Hasta  luego  —  Patita  mia. 
ROSITA  ELVIRA  FRANCESCA  THRAILKILL. 

P.  S.  —  I  'm  to  have  a  Spanish  stage  name,  "  La  Rosita," 
I  guess.  Mr.  Soper  says  that  Thrailkill  is  an  "  anti- 
climax," and  would  never  "go  dowa" 


IX 


PATIENCE  read  this  letter  with  some  alarm.  All  that  she 
had  heard  and  read  of  the  stage  made  her  apprehen- 
sive. She  feared  that  Rosita  would  become  fast,  would 
drink  and  smoke,  and  not  maintain  a  proper  reserve 
with  men.  Then  the  natural  independence  of  her  cha- 


124    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

racter  asserted  itself,  and  she  felt  pride  in  Rosita's  cour- 
age and  promptness  of  action.  She  even  envied  her  a 
little  :  her  life  would  be  so  full  of  variety. 

"  And  after  all  it 's  fate,"  she  thought  philosophically. 
"  She  was  cut  out  for  the  stage  if  ever  a  girl  was. 
You  might  as  well  try  to  keep  a  bird  from  using  its 
wings,  or  Miss  Beale  and  auntie  from  being  Temper- 
ance. I  wonder  what  my  fate  is.  It 's  not  the  stage, 
but  it 's  not  this,  neither  —  not  much.  Should  n't  wonder 
if  I  made  a  break  for  Mr.  Field  some  day.  But  I 
could  n't  leave  auntie.  She  's  the  kind  that  gets  a  hold 
on  you." 

She  did  her  duty  by  Hog  Heights  during  Miss  Tre- 
mont's  brief  holiday,  but  did  it  as  concisely  as  was 
practicable.  She  found  it  impossible  to  sympathise  with 
people  that  were  content  to  let  others  support  them, 
giving  nothing  in  return.  Her  strong  independent 
nature  despised  voluntary  weakness.  It  was  her  private 
opinion  that  these  useless  creatures  with  only  the  animal 
instinct  to  live,  and  not  an  ounce  of  grey  matter  in 
their  skulls,  encumbered  the  earth,  and  should  be 
quietly  chloroformed. 

Despite  her  love  for  Miss  Tremont,  she  breathed 
more  freely  in  her  absence.  She  was  surfeited  with 
religion,  and  at  times  possessed  with  a  very  flood  of 
revolt  and  the  desire  to  let  it  loose  upon  every  church 
worker  in  Mariaville.  But  affection  and  gratitude 
restrained  her. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    125 


Miss  TREMONT  returned  on  Wednesday  morning. 
She  stepped  off  the  train  with  a  bag  under  one  arm,  a 
bundle  under  the  other,  and  both  arms  full  of  flowers. 

"  Oh,  you  darling,  you  darling  !  "  she  cried  as  she 
fell  upon  Patience.  "  How  it  does  my  heart  good  to 
see  you  !  These  are  for  you.  Hal  picked  them,  and 
sent  her  love.  Aren't  they  sweet?  " 

11  Lovely,"  said  Patience,  crushing  the  flowers  as  she 
hugged  and  kissed  Miss  Tremont.  "  Here,  give  me 
the  bag." 

Miss  Tremont  would  go  to  Temperance  Hall  first, 
then  to  call  upon  Miss  Beale,  but  was  finally  guided  to 
her  home.  The  trunk  had  preceded  them.  Patience 
unpacked  the  despised  gowns,  while  listening  to  a  pas- 
sionate dissertation  upon  the  heavy  trial  they  had  been 
to  their  owner. 

"  I  think  you  had  a  good  time  all  the  same,"  she 
said.  "  You  look  as  if  you  'd  had,  at  any  rate.  You  've 
not  looked  so  well  since  I  came.  That  sort  of  thing 
agrees  with  you  better  than  tramping  over  Hog 
Heights—" 

"  It  does  not !  "  cried  Miss  Tremont.  "  And  I  am 
so  glad  to  get  back  to  my  work  and  my  little  girl." 

"  And  the  Lord,"  supplemented  Patience. 

"  Oh,  He  was  with  me  even  there.  Only  He  did  n't 
feel  so  near."  She  sighed  reminiscently.  "  But  I  Ve 
brought  pictures  of  the  children  to  show  you.  Let  us 
go  down  to  the  parlour  where  it 's  cooler,  and  then 
we  '11  stand  them  in  a  row  on  the  mantel.  They  're 


126    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

the  first  pictures  I  Ve  had  of  them  in  years."  She 
caught  a  package  from  the  tray  of  her  trunk,  in  her 
usual  abrupt  fashion,  and  hurried  downstairs,  Patience 
at  her  heels. 

Miss  Tremont  seated  herself  in  her  favourite  upright 
chair,  put  on  her  spectacles,  and  opened  the  package. 
"This  is  Hal,"  she  said,  handing  one  of  the  photo- 
graphs to  Patience.  "  I  must  show  you  her  first,  for 
she  's  my  pet." 

Patience  examined  the  photograph  eagerly.  It  was 
a  half  length  of  a  girl  with  a  straight  tilted  nose,  a 
small  mouth  with  a  downward  droop  at  the  corners, 
large  rather  prominent  eyes,  and  sleek  hair  which  was 
in  keeping  with  her  generally  well-groomed  appearance. 
She  wore  a  tailor  frock.  Her  slender  erect  figure 
was  beautifully  poised.  In  one  hand  she  carried  a 
lorgnette.  She  was  not  pretty,  but  her  expression 
was  frank  and  graceful,  and  she  had  much  distinction. 

"  I  like  her.  Any  one  could  see  she  was  a  swell. 
What  colour  hair  has  she?  " 

"  Oh,  a  kind  of  brown.  Her  eyes  are  a  sort  of 
grey.  Here  is  May.  She  always  has  her  photographs 
coloured." 

"  Oh,  she  's  a  beauty  !  "  The  girl  even  in  photo- 
graph showed  an  exquisite  bit  of  flesh  and  blood.  The 
large  blue  eyes  were  young  and  appealing  under  soft 
fall  of  lash.  The  mouth  was  small  and  red,  the  nose 
small  and  straight.  Chestnut  hair  curled  about  the 
small  head  and  oval  face.  The  skin  was  like  tinted 
jade.  It  was  the  face  of  the  American  aftermath.  She 
wore  a  ball  gown  revealing  a  slender  girlish  neck  and 
a  throat  of  tender  curves. 

"  She  is  a  real  beauty,"  said  Miss  Tremont.     "  Poor 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     127 

Hal  says,  '  she  can't  wear  her  neck  because  she  has  n't 
got  any.'     Did  you  ever  hear  such  an  expression?" 

"  Hal  looks  as  if  she  had  a  good  figure." 

Miss  Tremont  shook  her  head.  "  I  don't  approve 
of  all  Hal  does  —  she  pads.  She  does  n't  seem  to  care 
much  who  knows  it,  for  when  the  weather 's  very  warm 
she  takes  them  out,  right  before  your  eyes,  so  it  is  n't  so 
bad  as  if  she  were  deceitful  about  it.  Here  is  Beverly." 

Patience  looked  long  at  the  young  man's  face.  This 
face  too  was  oval,  with  a  high  intellectual  forehead, 
broad  black  brows,  and  very  regular  features.  The 
mouth  appeared  to  pout  beneath  the  drooping  mous- 
tache. The  expression  of  the  eyes  was  very  sweet.  It 
was  a  strong  handsome  face,  high-bred  like  the  others, 
but  with  a  certain  nobility  lacking  in  the  women. 

"  He  is  said  to  be  the  handsomest  young  man  in 
Westchester  County,  and  he  's  quite  dark,"  said  Miss 
Tremont.  "  What  do  you  think  of  him  ?  " 

"He  is  rather  handsome.     Where  is  Honora?" 

"  She  never  has  pictures  taken.  But,  dear  me,  I  must 
go  out  and  see  Ellen." 

Patience  disposed  the  photographs  on  the  mantel, 
then,  leaning  on  her  elbows,  gazed  upon  Beverly  Peele. 
The  Composite,  Byron,  the  Stranger,  rattled  their  bones 
unheard.  She  concluded  that  no  knight  of  olden 
time  could  ever  have  been  so  wholly  satisfactory  as 
this  young  man.  Romance,  who  had  been  boxed 
about  the  ears,  and  sent  to  sleep,  crept  to  her  old 
throne  with  a  sly  and  meaning  smile.  Patience  began 
at  once  to  imagine  her  meeting  with  Beverly  Peele. 
She  would  be  in  a  runaway  carriage,  and  he  would  res- 
cue her.  She  would  be  skating  and  fall  in  a  hole,  and 
he  would  pull  her  out.  He  would  be  riding  to  hounds 


128     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

in  his  beautiful  pink  coat  (which  was  red)  and  run 
over  her. 

She  pictured  his  face  with  a  variety  of  expressions. 
She  was  sure  that  he  had  the  courage  of  a  lion  and  the 
tenderness  of  some  women.  Unquestionably  he  had 
read  his  ancestors'  entire  library  — "  with  that  fore- 
head," —  and  he  probably  had  the  high  and  mighty  air 
of  her  favourite  heroes  of  fiction.  In  one  of  her  letters 
Miss  Tremont  had  remarked  that  he  loved  children  and 
animals ;  therefore  he  had  a  beautiful  character  and  a 
kind  heart.  And  she  was  glad  to  have  heard  that  he 
also  had  a  temper :  it  saved  him  from  being  a  prig. 
Altogether,  Patience,  with  the  wisdom  of  sixteen  and 
three  quarters,  was  quite  convinced  that  she  had  found 
her  ideal,  and  overlooked  its  extreme  unlikeness  to  the 
Composite,  which  was  the  only  ideal  she  had  ever 
created.  A  woman's  ideal  is  the  man  she  is  in  love 
with  for  the  time  being. 

She  went  up  to  her  room,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  critically  examined  herself  in  the  mirror.  With 
May  Peele  and  one  or  two  beauties  of  the  High  School 
in  mind,  she  decided  with  a  sigh  that  she  was  no 
beauty. 

"  But  who  knows,"  she  thought  with  true  insight, 
"  what  I  'd  be  with  clothes  ?  Who  could  be  pretty  in  a 
calico  dress  ?  My  nose  is  as  straight  as  May's,  anyhow, 
and  my  upper  lip  as  short.  But  to  be  a  real  beauty 
you  Ve  got  to  have  blue  eyes  and  golden  or  chestnut 
hair  and  a  little  mouth,  or  else  black  eyes  and  hair  like 
Rosita's.  My  eyes  are  only  grey,  and  my  hair  's  the 
colour  of  ashes,  as  Rosita  once  remarked.  There  's  no 
getting  over  that,  although  it  certainly  has  grown  a  lot 
since  I  came  here." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     129 

Then  she  remembered  that  Rosita  had  once  decora- 
ted her  with  red  ribbons  and  assured  her  that  they 
were  becoming.  She  ran  down  to  the  best  spare  room, 
and,  divesting  a  tidy  of  its  scarlet  bows,  pinned  them 
upon  herself  before  the  mirror,  which  she  discovered 
was  more  becoming  than  her  own.  The  brilliant  col- 
our was  undoubtedly  improving  —  "  And,  my  good- 
ness !  "  she  exclaimed  suddenly,  "  I  do  believe  I  have  n't 
got  a  freckle  left.  It  must  be  the  climate." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing?"  said  an  abrupt 
voice  from  the  doorway. 

Patience  started  guiltily,  and  restored  the  bows  to  the 
tidy. 

"  Oh,  you  see,"  she  stammered,  "  May  is  so  pretty 
I  wanted  to  see  if  I  could  be  a  little  less  homely." 
Patience  was  truthful  by  nature,  but  the  woman  does 
not  live  that  will  not  lie  under  purely  feminine  provoca- 
tion. Otherwise  she  would  not  be  worthy  to  bear  the 
hallowed  name  of  woman. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Miss  Tremont,  crossly,  "  I 
thought  you  were  above  that  kind  of  foolishness.  You, 
must  remember  that  you  are  as  the  Lord  made  you, 
and  be  thankful  that  you  were  not  born  a  negro  or  a 
Chinaman." 

"  Oh,  I  am,"  said  Patience. 


XI 


THEREAFTER,  Patience  roamed  the  woods  munching 
chestnuts  and  dreaming  of  Beverly  Peele.  Hugo  and 
Balzac  and  Goethe  were  neglected.  Her  brain  wove 

9 


130    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

thrilling  romances  of  its  own,  especially  in  the  night  to 
the  sound  of  rain.  She  never  emerged  from  the  woods 
without  a  shortening  of  the  breath ;  but  even  Hal  did 
not  pay  the  promised  call;  nor  did  Beverly  dash 
through  the  streets  in  a  pink  coat,  a  charger  clasped 
between  his  knees. 

"  Well,  it 's  fun  to  be  in  love,  anyhow,"  she  thought. 
"  I  '11  meet  him  some  time,  I  know." 

Much  to  her  regret  she  was  not  permitted  to  go  to 
New  York  to  see  Rosita  off.  Miss  Tremont  had  a 
morbid  horror  of  the  stage,  and  after  Patience's  exhibi- 
tion of  vanity  was  convinced  that  "  actress  creatures  " 
would  exert  a  pernicious  influence. 

And,  shortly  after,  Patience  received  news  which 
made  her  forget  Rosita  and  even  Beverly  Peele  for  a 
while.  Mr.  Foord  was  dead.  Patience  had  hoarded 
his  twenty  dollar  gold  piece  because  he  had  given  it  to 
her.  She  bought  a  black  hat  and  frock  with  it,  and 
felt  as  sad  as  she  could  at  that  age  of  shifting  impres- 
sions. A  later  mail  brought  word  that  he  had  left  her 
John  Sparhawk's  library,  which  could  stay  in  the  Custom 
House  until  she  was  able  to  send  for  it,  and  a  few  hun- 
dred dollars  which  would  remain  in  a  savings  bank  un- 
til she  was  eighteen.  He  had  nothing  else  to  leave 
except  his  books,  which  went  to  found  a  town  library. 
All  but  those  few  hundreds  had  been  sunken  in  an  an- 
nuity. Miss  Tremont  was  quite  content  to  be  over- 
looked in  the  girl's  favour. 

By  the  time  Patience  was  ready  to  return  to  Beverly 
Peele  the  new  term  opened,  and  the  uncompromising 
methods  of  the  High  School  left  no  time  for  romance. 
Once  more  her  ambition  to  excel  became  paramount, 
and  she  studied  night  and  day.  She  had  no  temptation 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    131 

to  dissipate,  for  she  was  not  popular  with  the  young 
people  of  Mariaville.  The  Y's  disapproved  of  her  be- 
cause she  would  not  don  the  white  ribbon;  and  the 
church  girls,  generally,  felt  that  except  when  perfunc- 
torily assisting  Miss  Tremont  she  held  herself  aloof, 
even  at  the  frequent  sociables.  And  they  were  scan- 
dalised because  she  did  not  join  the  church,  nor  the 
King's  Daughters,  nor  the  Christian  Endeavor. 

The  High  School  scholars  liked  her  because  she  was 
"square,"  and  cordially  admired  her  cleverness;  but 
there  were  no  recesses  in  the  ordinary  sense,  and  after 
school  Miss  Tremont  claimed  her.  Even  the  boys 
"  had  no  show,"  as  they  phrased  it.  Occasionally  they 
lent  her  a  hand  on  the  ice ;  but  like  all  Californians, 
she  bitterly  felt  the  cold  of  her  second  winter,  and  in 
her  few  leisure  hours  preferred  the  fire. 

Sometimes  she  looked  at  Beverly  Peele's  picture 
with  a  sigh  and  some  resentment.  "  But  never  mind," 
she  would  think  philosophically,  "  I  can  fall  in  love 
with  him  over  again  next  summer."  When  vacation 
came  she  did  in  a  measure  take  up  the  broken  threads 
of  her  romance,  but  they  had  somewhat  rotted  from 
disuse. 

Rosita  wrote  every  few  weeks,  reporting  hard  work 
and  unbounded  hope.  "The  duena"  as  she  called 
her  companion,  "  was  an  old  devil,"  and  never  let  her 
go  out  alone,  nor  receive  a  man;  but  she  "didn't 
care,"  she  had  no  time  for  nonsense,  anyhow.  She 
was  learning  her  part  in  the  Spanish  opera,  which  had 
been  written  for  her,  and  it  was  "  lovely." 

"It  must  be  a  delightful  sensation  to  have  your 
future  assured  at  seventeen,"  thought  Patience. 
"  Mine  is  as  problematical  as  the  outcome  of  the  Tern- 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

perance  cause.  I  have  had  one  unexpected  change, 
and  may  have  more.  If  it  were  not  for  Rosita's  letters 
I  should  almost  forget  those  sixteen  years  in  California. 
I  certainly  am  not  the  same  person.  I  have  n't  lost 
my  temper  for  a  year  and  a  half,  and  I  don't  seem  to 
be  disturbed  any  more  by  vague  yearnings.  Life  is  too 
practical,  I  suppose." 

Miss  Tremont  did  not  visit  the  Gardiner  Peeles  this 
summer :  they  spent  the  season  in  travel.  Late  in  the 
fall  Rosita  returned  to  America.  She  wrote  the  day 
before  she  sailed.  That  was  the  last  letter  Patience  re- 
ceived from  her.  Later  she  sent  a  large  envelope  full 
of  clippings  descriptive  of  her  triumphal  debut ;  there- 
after nothing  whatever.  Patience,  supposing  herself 
forgotten,  anathematised  her  old  friend  wrathfully,  but 
pride  forbade  her  to  write  and  demand  an  explanation. 

She  noticed  with  spasms  of  terror  that  Miss  Tremont 
was  failing.  The^rush  and  worry  of  a  lifetime  had 
worn  the  blood  white,  and  the  nerve-force  down  like  an 
old  wharf  pile.  But  Miss  Tremont  would  not  admit 
that  she  had  lost  an  ounce  of  strength.  She  arose  at 
the  same  hour  and  toiled  until  late.  When  Patience 
begged  her  to  take  care  of  herself,  she  became  almost 
querulous,  and  all  Patience  could  do  was  to  anticipate 
her  in  every  possible  way.  But  when  school  reopened 
she  had  little  time  for  anything  but  study.  She  was 
to  finish  in  June,  and  the  last  year's  course  was  very 
difficult. 

She  graduated  with  flying  colours,  and  Miss  Tremont 
was  so  proud  and  excited  that  she  took  a  day's  vaca- 
tion. A  week  later  Patience  hinted  that  she  thought 
she  should  be  earning  her  own  living ;  but  Miss  Tremont 
would  not  even  discuss  the  subject.  She  fell  into  a 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     133 

rage  every  time  it  was  broached,  and  Patience,  who 
would  have  rebelled,  had  Miss  Tremont  been  younger 
and  stronger,  submitted  :  she  knew  it  would  not  be  for 
long. 


XII 

PATIENCE  was  languid  all  summer,  and  lay  about  in 
the  woods,  when  she  could,  reading  little  and  thinking 
much.  Her  school  books  put  away  forever,  she  felt 
for  the  first  time  that  she  was  a  woman,  but  did  not 
take  as  much  interest  in  herself  as  she  had  thought  she 
should.  She  speculated  a  good  deal  upon  her  future 
career  as  a  newspaper  woman,  and  expended  two  cents 
every  morning  upon  the  New  York  "  Day."  But  she 
forgot  to  study  it  in  the  new  interest  it  created  :  she  had 
just  the  order  of  mind  to  succumb  t^the  fascination  of 
the  newspaper,  and  she  read  the  "Day's"  report  of  cur- 
rent history  with  a  keener  pleasure  than  even  the  great 
records  of  the  past  had  induced.  She  longed  for  a 
companion  with  whom  to  talk  over  the  significant  ten- 
dencies of  the  age,  and  gazed  upon  Beverly  Peele's 
dome-like  brow  with  a  sigh. 

Once,  in  the  Sunday  issue,  she  came  upon  a  column 
and  a  half  devoted  to  Rosita,  "  The  Sweetheart  of 
the  Public,"  "The  Princess  Royal  of  Opera  Bouffe." 
The  description  of  the  young  prima  donna's  home 
life,  personal  characteristics,  and  footlight  triumphs, 
was  further  embellished  by  a  painfully  decolletf  por- 
trait, a  lace  night  gown,  a  pair  of  wonderfully  em- 
broidered stockings,  and  a  rosary. 

Patience  read  the  article  twice,  wondering  why  fame 


134    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

realised  looked  so  different  from  the  abstract  quality 
of  her  imagination. 

"  Somehow  it  seems  a  sort  of  tin  halo,"  she  thought. 
Then  her  thoughts  drifted  back  to  Monterey,  and  re- 
called it  with  startling  vividness.  "Still  even  if  I 
have  n't  forgotten  it,  it  is  like  the  memory  of  another 
life.  Its  only  lasting  effect  has  been  to  make  me 
hate  what  is  coarse  and  sinful ;  and  dear  auntie,  even 
if  she  hasn't  converted  me,  has  developed  all  my 
good. 

"  I  wonder  if  Rosita  has  been  in  love,  and  if  that 
is  the  reason  she  has  forgotten  me.  But  she  has  n't 
married,  so  perhaps  it  *s  only  adulation  that  has  driven 
everything  else  out  of  her  head."  And  then  with  her 
eyes  on  the  river,  which  under  the  heavy  sky  looked 
like  a  stream  of  wrinkling  lead  from  which  a  coating  of 
silver  had  worn  off  in  places,  she  fell  to  dreaming  of 
Beverly  Peele  and  an  ideal  existence  in  which  they 
travelled  and  read  and  assured  each  other  of  respectful 
and  rarefied  affection. 

Early  in  the  winter  the  influenza  descended  upon 
America.  Mr.  Peele,  his  wife  wrote,  was  one  of  the 
first  victims,  and  the  entire  family  took  him  to  Florida. 
One  night,  a  month  later,  Miss  Tremont  returned  from 
Hog  Heights  and  staggered  through  her  door. 

"  Oh,"  she  moaned,  as  Patience  rushed  forward 
and  caught  her  in  her  arms,  "  I  feel  so  strangely. 
I  have  pains  all  over  me,  and  the  queerest  feeling 
in  my  knees." 

"  It 's  the  grippe,"  said  Patience,  who  had  read  its 
history  in  the  "  Day."  She  put  Miss  Tremont  to  bed, 
and  sent  for  the  doctor.  The  old  lady  was  too  weak 
to  protest,  and  swallowed  the  medicines  submissively. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     135 

She  recovered  in  due  course,  and  one  day  slipped  out 
and  plodded  through  the  snow  to  Hog  Heights.  She 
was  brought  home  unconscious,  and  that  night  was 
gasping  with  pneumonia. 

There  was  no  lack  of  nurses.  Miss  Beale  and  Mrs. 
Watt,  who  had  helped  to  care  for  her  during  the  less 
serious  attack,  returned  at  once,  and  many  others 
called  at  intervals  during  the  day  and  night. 

Patience  sat  constantly  by  the  bed,  staring  at  the 
face  so  soon  to  be  covered  from  all  sight.  She  wanted 
to  cry  and  scream,  but  could  not.  Her  heart  was  like 
lead  in  her  breast. 

At  one  o'clock  on  the  second  night,  she  and  Miss 
Beale  were  alone  in  the  sick  room.  Mrs.  Watt  was 
walking  softly  up  and  down  the  hall  without. 

Miss  Tremont  was  breathing  irregularly,  and  Patience 
bent  over  her  with  white  face.  Miss  Beale  began  to  sob. 

"Is  it  not  terrible,  terrible,"  she  ejaculated,  "that 
she  should  die  like  this,  she  whose  deathbed  should 
have  been  so  beautiful,  —  unconscious,  drugged  —  mor- 
phine, which  is  as  accursed  as  whisky  — " 

"  I  am  glad  of  it.  It  would  be  more  horrible  to  see 
her  suffer." 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  her  suffer  —  dear,  dear  Miss 
Tremont.  But  she  should  have  died  in  the  full  knowl- 
edge that  she  was  going  to  God.  Oh  !  Oh  !  "  she 
burst  out  afresh.  "  How  I  envy  her !  It 's  my  only, 
only  sin,  but  I  can't  help  envying  those  who  are  going 
to  heaven.  I  can't  wait.  I  do  so  want  to  see  the 
beautiful  green  pastures  and  the  still  waters  —  and  oh, 
how  I  want  to  talk  with  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob  !  " 

Patience  flung  her  head  into  her  lap  and  burst  into 
a  fit  of  laughter. 


136    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 


XIII 

AN  hour  later  she  went  downstairs  and  turned  up 
all  the  lights.  Mrs.  Watt  had  gone  to  the  next  house 
to  telephone  for  the  undertakers.  When  she  returned 
she  went  upstairs  to  Miss  Beale.  Patience  could  hear 
the  two  women  praying.  That  was  the  only  sound  in 
the  terrible  stillness.  She  paced  up  and  down,  wringing 
her  hands  and  gasping  occasionally.  Her  sense  of 
desolation  was  appalling,  although  as  yet  she  but  half 
realised  her  bereavement. 

Suddenly  she  heard  the  sound  of  runners  on  the 
crisp  snow.  They  stopped  before  the  gate.  She  ran 
shuddering  to  the  window.  The  moon  flooded  the 
white  earth.  Two  tall  black  shadows  came  down  the 
path.  They  trod  as  if  on  velvet.  Even  on  the  steps 
and  porch  they  made  no  sound.  They  knocked  as 
death  may  knock  on  a  human  soul,  lightly,  meaningly. 
Patience  dragged  herself  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 
The  long  narrow  black  men  entered  and  bent  their 
heads  solemnly.  Patience  raised  her  shaking  hand, 
and  pointed  to  the  floor  above.  The  men  of  death 
bowed  again,  and  stole  upward  like  black  ghosts.  In  a 
few  moments  they  stole  down  again  and  out  and  away. 
Patience  rushed  frantically  through  the  rooms  to  the 
kitchen,  where  she  fell  upon  Ellen,  dozing  by  the  fire, 
and  screamed  and  laughed  until  the  terrified  woman 
flung  a  pitcher  of  water  on  her,  then  carried  her  upstairs 
and  put  her  to  bed. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    137 


XIV 

A  WEEK  later  Patience  wandered  restlessly  about  the 
lonely  house.  The  hundreds  of  people  that  had 
thronged  it  had  gone  at  last,  even  Miss  Beale  and 
Mrs.  Watt. 

She  had  cried  until  she  had  no  tears  left,  and 
rebelled  until  reason  would  hear  no  more.  Her  nerves 
felt  blunt  and  worn  down. 

Yesterday  Miss  Tremont's  lawyer  had  told  her  that 
after  a  few  unimportant  bequests  she  was  to  have  the 
income  of  the  dead  woman's  small  estate  until  she 
married,  after  which  she  would  have  nothing  and  the 
Temperance  cause  all.  She  was  therefore  exempt  from 
the  pettiest  and  severest  of  life's  trials.  Miss  Tremont 
had  also  left  a  letter,  begging  her  to  devote  herself  to 
a  life  of  charity  and  reform.  But  Patience  had  at  last 
revolted.  She  realised  how  empty  had  been  her  part, 
how  torrential  the  impulsion  of  Miss  Tremont. 

The  great  world  outside  of  Mariaville  pressed  upon 
her  imagination,  gigantic,  rainbow-hued,  alluring.  It 
beckoned  with  a  thousand  fingers,  and  all  her  complex 
being  responded.  She  longed  for  a  talent  with  which  to 
add  to  its  beauty,  and  thought  no  ill  of  it. 

She  had  sat  up  half  the  night  thinking,  and  this 
morning  she  felt  doubly  restless  and  lonely.  She 
wanted  to  go  away  at  once,  but  as  yet  she  had  made 
no  plans ;  and  plans  were  necessary.  She  was  too 
tired  to  go  to  Mr.  Field  and  apply  for  work ;  and  she 
knew  that  her  delicate  appearance  would  not  commend 
itself  to  his  approval.  She  went  to  the  mirror  in  the 


ij 8     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

best  spare  bedroom  and  regarded  herself  anxiously. 
Her  black-robed  figure  seemed  very  tall  and  thin,  her 
face  white  and  sharp. 

"Even  red  bows  — "she  began;  then  her  memory 
tossed  up  Rosita.  "Oh,"  she  thought,  "if  I  could 
only  see  her, —  see  some  one  I  care  a  little  for.  I 
believe  I  '11  go  —  there  may  have  been  some  rea- 
son —  her  letters  may  have  miscarried  —  I  must  see 
somebody." 

She  ran  upstairs,  put  on  her  outing  things,  and 
walked  rapidly  to  the  station.  The  sharp  air  electrified 
her  blood.  The  world  was  full  of  youth  and  hope 
once  more.  She  forgot  her  bereavement  for  the  hour. 
She  hoped  Rosita  would  ask  her  to  visit  her:  the 
popular  young  prima  donna  must  have  drawn  many 
brilliant  people  about  her. 

When  she  reached  New  York  she  inquired  her  way 
to  "  Soper's  Opera  House,"  obtained  Rosita's  address, 
and  took  the  elevated  train  up  town.  She  found  the 
great  apartment  house  with  little  difficulty,  and  was 
enraptured  with  its  marble  floors  and  pillars,  its  liveried 
servants  and  luxurious  elevator. 

"  I  certainly  had  rich  ancestors,"  she  thought,  "  and 
I  am  sure  they  were  swells.  I  have  a  natural  affinity 
for  all  this  sort  of  thing." 

She  was  landed  at  the  very  top  of  the  house.  The 
elevator  boy  directed  her  attention  to  a  button,  then 
slid  down  and  out  of  sight,  leaving  Patience  with  the 
delightful  sensation  of  having  stepped  upon  a  new 
stratum,  high  and  away  from  the  vast  terrestrial  cellar. 

A  trim  French  maid  opened  the  door.  She  stared 
at  Patience,  and  looked  disinclined  to  admit  her.  But 
Patience  pushed  the  door  back  with  determined  hand. 


Patience  Spar  hawk  and  Her  Times     139 

"I  wish  to  see  La  Rosita,"  she  said  in  French. 

"  But  madame  is  not  receiving  to-day." 

"  She  will  see  me,  I  am  sure.  Tell  her  that  Miss 
Sparhawk  is  here." 

The  woman  admitted  her  reluctantly,  and  left  her 
standing  in  an  anteroom,  passing  between  heavy 
portieres.  Patience  followed,  and  entered  a  large 
drawing-room  furnished  with  amber  satin  and  ebony : 
a  magnificent  room,  heavy  with  the  perfume  of  great 
baskets  of  flowers,  and  filled  with  costly  articles  of 
decoration.  The  carpet  was  of  amber  velvet.  Not  a 
sound  of  street  penetrated  the  heavy  satin  curtains. 

An  indefinable  sensation  stole  over  Patience's 
mind,  a  ghost  whose  lineaments  were  blurred,  yet 
familiar.  She  felt  an  impulse  to  turn  and  run,  then 
twitched  her  shoulders  impatiently,  and  approaching 
other  portieres,  parted  them  and  glanced  into  the 
room  beyond. 

It  was  evidently  a  boudoir,  a  fragrant  fairy-like 
thing  of  rose  and  lace. 

In  a  deep  chair,  clad  in  a  robe  de  chambre  of  rose- 
coloured  silk,  flowing  open  over  a  lace  smock  and  petti- 
coat, lay  Rosita.  Her  dense  black  hair  was  twisted 
carelessly  on  top  of  her  head  and  confined  with  a 
jewelled  dagger.  One  tiny  foot,  shod  in  a  high-heeled 
slipper  of  rose-coloured  silk,  was  conspicuous  on  a  low 
pouf.  The  flush  of  youth  was  in  her  cheek,  its  scarlet 
in  her  mouth.  The  large  white  lids  lay  heavily  on  the 
languorous  eyes.  In  one  hand  she  held  a  pink  cigar- 
ette in  a  jewelled  holder.  She  spoke  in  a  low  tantalis- 
ing voice  to  a  man  who  sat  before  her,  leaning  eagerly 
forward. 

The  maid  had  evidently  not  succeeded  in  gaming 


140    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

her  attention.  Patience,  conquering  another  impulse 
to  run,  pushed  the  hangings  aside  and  entered.  Rosita 
sprang  to  her  feet,  the  blood  flashing  to  her  hair ;  but 
her  eyes  expanded  with  pleasure. 

"  Patita  !  Patita  !  "  she  stammered,  then  caught  Pa- 
tience in  her  arms.  As  both  girls  looked  as  if  about 
to  weep,  the  man  hurriedly  departed. 

The  girls  hugged  each  other  as  of  old ;  then  Rosita 
divested  Patience  of  her  wraps  and  told  the  astonished 
maid  to  take  them  out  of  sight. 

"  Now  that  you  are  here,  you  shall  stay,"  she 
said,  "stay  a  long,  long  while.  Have  you  had  lun- 
cheon?" 

"  No  —  but  I  'm  not  —  yes,  I  am,  though,  come  to 
think  of  it.  Get  me  something  to  eat.  Rosita,  how 
good  it  is  to  see  you  again  !  Why,  why  did  n't  you 
write  to  me  ?  " 

"  O — h ;  I  will  tell  you,  perhaps ;  but  you  must 
have  luncheon  first.  I  take  a  late  breakfast,  just  after 
rising,  so  it  will  be  a  few  minutes  before  yours  is  ready." 
She  rang  a  bell  and  gave  an  order  to  the  maid,  then 
pushed  Patience  into  the  deepest  and  softest  chair  in 
the  room. 

"Now,"  she  said,  smiling  affectionately,  "lie  back 
and  be  comfortable ;  you  look  tired.  Oh,  Patita,  I  am 
so  glad  to  see  you.  Is  n't  it  like  old  times  ?  " 

With  a  grace  which  long  practice  had  made  a  fine 
art,  she  sank  upon  one  end  of  a  divan,  and  back  among 
a  mass  of  cushions.  Her  white  arms  lay  along  the 
pillows  in  such  careless  wise  as  to  best  exhibit  their 
perfection ;  her  head  dropped  backward  slightly,  re- 
vealing the  round  throat.  The  attitude  was  so  natural 
as  to  suggest  that  she  had  ceased  to  pose. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     141 

Patience  stared  at  her,  wondering  if  it  could  be  the 
same  Rosita.  All  the  freshness  of  youth  was  in  that 
beautiful  face  and  round  voluptuous  form,  but  she 
looked  years  and  years  and  years  older  than  the  Rosita 
of  Monterey.  Patience  suddenly  felt  young  and  foolish 
and  green.  The  world  that  had  been  so  great  and 
wonderful  to  her  imagination  seemed  to  have  shrunken 
to  a  ball,  to  be  tossed  from  one  to  the  other  of  those 
white  idle  hands. 

"What  has  changed  you  so?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

Rosita  gave  the  low  delicious  laugh  of  which  Patience 
had  read  in  the  New  York  "  Day."  She  relit  her  cigar- 
ette and  blew  a  soft  cloud. 

"  I  will  tell  you  after  luncheon.  You  are  the  only 
person  I  would  never  fib  to.  I  believe  those  grey  eyes 
of  yours  are  the  only  honest  eyes  in  the  world.  Why 
are  you  in  black?  " 

Patience  told  her,  and  was  drawn  on  to  speak  of 
herself  and  her  life.  Rosita  shuddered  once  or  twice, 
an  adorable  little  French  shudder,  and  cast  upward  her 
glittering  hands,  whose  nails  Patience  admired  even 
more  than  their  jewels. 

"  Dios  de  mi  alma  !  "  she  cried  finally.  "  What  an 
existence  !  —  I  cannot  call  it  life.  I  should  have  jumped 
into  the  river.  That  life  would  drive  me  mad,  and  I 
do  not  believe  that  it  suits  you  either." 

She  spoke  with  a  Spanish  accent,  and  with  the  affected 
precision  of  a  foreigner  that  has  carefully  learned  the 
English  language.  Her  monotony  of  inflection  was 
more  effective  than  animation. 

"No,  it  doesn't,"  said  Patience,  'J'and  I  have  no 
intention  of  pursuing  it.  I  'm  going  to  be  a  newspaper 
woman." 


142     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Rosita  gave  forth  a  sound  that  from  any  other  throat 
would  have  been  a  shriek. 

"  A  newspaper  woman  !  And  then  you  will  come 
and  interview  me.  How  droll !  I  shall  have  to  become 
eccentric,  so  that  I  can  furnish  you  with  'stories,'  as 
they  call  them.  I  have  been  pumped  dry.  When  the 
newspaper  women  have  run  out  of  everything  else  they 
come  to  me,  and  they  love  me  because  I  am  good- 
natured,  and  turn  my  things  upside  down  for  them.  I 
never  refuse  to  see  them,  so  they  have  never  written 
anything  horrid  about  me.  Oh,  I  can  tell  you  I  have 
learned  a  great  many  lessons  since  I  left  Monterey. 
But  here  is  your  luncheon.  While  you  are  eating  it  I 
will  do  something  for  you  that  I  have  never  done  for 
any  one  else  off  the  stage  :  I  will  sing  to  you." 

The  maid  placed  a  silver  tray  on  a  little  table,  and 
while  Patience  ate  of  creamed  oysters  and  broiled  part- 
ridge, Rosita  sang  as  the  larks  of  paradise  may  sing  when 
angels  awake  with  the  dawn.  Once  Patience  glanced 
hastily  upward,  half  expecting  to  see  the  notes  falling  in 
a  golden  shower.  When  she  expressed  her  admiration, 
Rosita' s  red  lips  smiled  slowly  away  from  the  white 
sharp  little  teeth. 

"  Do  you  like  it,  Patita  mia  ?  "  she  asked  with  be- 
witching graciousness.  "Yes,  I  can  sing.  I  have  the 
world  at  my  feet." 

She  resumed  her  languid  attitude  on  the  divan. 
" Bueno"  she  said,  "now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  all 
about  it.  People  are  always  a  little  heavy  after  eating : 
I  waited  on  purpose.  But  you  must  promise  not  to 
move  until  I  get  through.  Will  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Patience,  uncomfortably.  "  I  hope  it  is 
nothing  very  dreadful." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     143 

"  That  all  depends  upon  the  way  you  look  at  things. 
It  will  seem  odd  to  tell  it  to  you.  You  used  to  be  the 
one  to  do  what  you  felt  like  and  tell  other  people  that 
if  they  did  not  like  it  they  could  do  the  other  thing; 
but  I  suppose  you  are  W.  C.  T.  U'd." 

"No,  I'm  not.     Go  on." 

"Well,  I  will."  She  paused  and  laughed  lightly. 
"Funny  world.  We  do  not  usually  tell  this  sort  of 
story  to  a  woman,  but  you  and  I  are  different.  Bueno. 

"  I  went  to  Paris  and  studied  hard.  Yes,  I  am  lazy 
yet,  but  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  be  a  great,  great, 
great  success.  I  had  what  in  insane  people  is  called 
the  fixed  idea,  and  the  American  in  me  conquered  the 
Spanish.  Everybody  praised  my  voice.  No  one  said, 
it  was  the  greatest  voice  in  the  world,  nor  even  better 
than  two  or  three  others  over  there ;  but  I  had  no  dis- 
couragement. I  attracted  a  great  deal  of  attention 
from  men,  but  the  duena  never  let  them  get  a  word 
with  me,  and  I  did  not  care.  I  used  to  wonder  at  the 
stories  told  about  some  of  the  other  girls,  and  did  not 
half  understand.  Two  sold  themselves;  but  why?  with 
a  fortune  in  one's  throat.  Others  fell  in  love,  and 
talked  about  the  temperament  of  the  artist,  but  I  could 
not  understand  that  nonsense  either. 

"  Bueno,  at  the  end  of  the  time  Soper  came  over 
and  bought  me  eight  trunks  full  of  the  most  beautiful 
clothes  you  ever  saw,  —  mostly  for  the  stage,  but  lots 
for  the  house  and  street.  He  said  I  was  a  first-class 
investment,  and  worth  the  outlay.  When  he  heard  me 
sing  he  shook  all  over.  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I  had 
been  kept  on  short  allowance,  and  had  had  very  dowdy 
clothes,  which  broke  my  heart. 

"  Bueno y  we  came  home.     On  the  steamer,  Soper 


144    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

treated  me  like  a  father,  but  never  let  me  talk  to  a 
man.  Either  he  or  the  duena  was  at  my  heels  all  the 
time.  He  is  a  coarse-looking  man,  but  I  really  liked 
him  because  he  had  been  so  good  to  me,  and  there 
was  something  very  attractive  about  him.  When  we 
reached  New  York  the  duena  left  us.  She  said  she 
was  going  straight  to  Philadelphia  to  her  home.  Soper 
and  I  got  in  another  cab  and  drove  to  an  apartment 
on  Broadway.  I  did  not  know  until  the  next  day  that 
it  was  his  apartment.  That  was  in  the  evening.  The 
next  morning,  while  I  was  at  a  late  breakfast,  he  sent 
me  a  note,  saying  that  he  would  call  in  an  hour  and  have 
a  business  talk  with  me.  I  was  practising  my  scales 
when  he  came  in,  and  he  clapped  his  hands  and  offered 
me  a  chair.  He  drew  one  up  for  himself,  and  then 
said  in  a  perfectly  business-like  voice  :  — 

" '  When  I  ran  across  you  I  knew  that  you  only 
needed  training  to  become  a  queen  of  opera  bouffe,  and 
to  make  a  fortune  for  some  one  besides  yourself.  I 
also  saw  that  you  were  going  to  become  a  beautiful 
woman.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  own  both 
the  woman  and  the  artist.  Don't  look  like  a  little 
tigress  —  still,  I'm  glad  you  can  look  that  way,  —  you 
may  be  able  to  do  Carmen  yet.  Don't  misunderstand 
me.  I  am  not  a  villain,  merely  a  practical  man  with 
an  eye  to  beauty.  I  have  no  idea  of  letting  you  get 
under  the  influence  of  any  other  man, — not  even  if 
you  were  n't  so  pretty.  Let  me  console  you  by  telling 
you  that  for  the  sort  of  woman  you  are  there  is  no 
escape.  You  were  made  to  drive  men  mad,  and  for  the 
comic  opera  stage.  That  sort  of  combination  might  as 
well  get  down  to  business  as  early  in  the  game  as  pos- 
sible :  it  saves  time. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    145 

" '  Had  I  never  discovered  you,  you  would  have 
drifted  from  company  to  company,  gone  the  pace  with 
nothing  to  show  for  it,  and  worn  out  your  youth  at 
one-night  stands.  I  saved  you  from  a  terrible  fate. 
You  know  the  rest.  You  know  what  you  owe  me. 
You  have  developed  even  beyond  my  hopes,  but  — 
mark  you  this  —  I  have  not  advertised  you  in  any  way. 
You  are  as  unknown  as  on  the  day  you  left  California. 
If  you  mount  the  high  horse  and  say :  "  Sir,  you  are 
a  villain.  Go  to,  go  to  ! "  I  shall  merely  turn  you 
loose  without  your  trunks.  You  may  imagine  that  with 
your  voice  and  beauty  you  could  get  an  engagement 
anywhere.  So  you  could  —  without  advertising,  with- 
out an  opera,  and  without  a  theatre  of  your  own. 
Every  existing  troupe  has  its  own  prima  donna;  you 
would  have  to  take  a  second  or  third  rate  part,  —  and 
unquestionably  in  a  travelling  troupe.  There  is  no 
place  for  you  in  New  York  but  the  one  I  propose  to 
create.  Lillian  Russell  practically  owns  the  Casino, 
and  will,  unless  all  signs  fail,  for  many  years.  She 
would  not  tolerate  you  on  the  same  stage  five  minutes ; 
neither  would  any  prima  donna  who  had  any  influ- 
ence with  her  manager,  — and  they  mostly  have.  Your 
career  would  be  exactly  what  it  would  have  been  if  I 
had  not  met  you,  —  full  of  hardships  and  change  and 
racing  about  the  country ;  arriving  at  six  in  the  even- 
ing, singing  at  eight,  leave  the  next  morning  at  four, 
get  what  sleep  you  could  on  the  train.  That 's  about 
the  size  of  it.  You  'd  be  painting  inside  of  a  year,  if 
not  wearing  plumpers.  And  what  you  're  mad  at  now, 
you  'd  be  looking  upon  as  a  matter  of  course  then,  and 
grateful  for  the  admiration. 

"  '  Moreover,  no  success  is  worth  a  tinker's  dam  that 
10 


146    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

ain't  made  in  New  York,  —  I  think  I  wrote  you  that 
on  an  average  of  once  a  month.  If  you  show  that  you 
have  horse  sense,  and  will  sign  a  contract  with  me  for 
five  years,  I  '11  make  you  the  rage  in  New  York  inside 
of  two  months.  Now  it  is  success  or  failure  :  you  can 
take  your  choice.  I  '11  be  here  to-morrow  at  ten.' 
And  he  was  gone  before  I  could  speak. 

"  Bueno,  after  I  had  gotten  over  being  fearfully 
mad  I  sat  down  and  thought  it  all  over.  I  knew  that 
all  he  said  was  true.  I  had  heard  too  much  in  Paris. 
He  had  kept  writing  me  that  virtue  paid  in  an  actress 
to  keep  me  straight,  but  I  had  heard  the  opposite 
about  nine  hundred  times.  Bueno,  I  was  in  a  trap. 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  succeed.  I  had  even 
worked  for  it,  —  and  you  know  how  much  that  meant 
with  me.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  succeed  I  would, 
no  matter  what  the  price.  It  is  one  of  two  things 
in  this  world,  —  success  or  failure,  —  and  if  you  fail 
nobody  cares  a  hang  about  your  virtue. 

"  You  know  I  never  was  sentimental  nor  romantic. 
Soper  had  made  a  plain  business  proposition  in  a  prac- 
tical way  that  I  liked.  If  he  had  gone  on  like  a  stage 
lover  it  would  have  been  much  harder.  And  after  all 
I  would  be  no  worse  than  a  society  girl  who  sells  her- 
self to  a  rich  husband.  So,  after  turning  it  over  for 
twenty-four  hours  —  or  all  the  time  I  was  awake  —  I 
concluded  not  to  be  a  fool,  but  La  Rosita,  Queen  of 
Opera  Bouffe.  When  he  called  I  merely  shrugged  my 
shoulders  and  said  '  Bueno?  He  laughed,  and  said  I 
would  certainly  succeed  in  this  world ;  that  the  beau- 
tiful woman  with  the  cool  calculating  brain  always  got 
there.  So  —  here  I  am.  What  do  you  think  of  it?  " 

During  this  recital  her  voice  had  not  for  one  instant 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    147 

broken  nor  hardened.  She  told  her  story  in  the  soft 
sweet  languid  voice  of  Spain ;  she  might  have  been  re- 
lating an  idyl  of  which  she  was  the  Juliet  and  Soper  the 
Romeo. 

Patience  stared  at  her  with  wide  eyes  and  dry  lips. 

"And  you  have  never  regretted  it?"  she  asked; 
"you  don't  care?" 

Rosita  raised  her  beautiful  brows.  "  Regret  ?  Well, 
no,  I  should  say  not.  Have  I  not  realised  my  dreams 
and  ambition?  Am  I  not  rich  and  famous  and  happy 
instead  of  a  scrambling  nobody?  Regret? — No — 
rather.  What  is  more,  I  know  how  to  save.  A  good 
many  of  us  have  learned  that  lesson.  When  I  have 
lost  voice  and  youth  I  shall  be  rich,  —  rich.  We  do 
not  end  in  a  garret,  like  in  the  old  days.  And  I  do 
not  drink,  and  I  rest  a  great  deal  —  it  will  be  a  long 
time  before  I  go  off.  Besides,  there  are  the  beauty 
doctors  —  Oh,  no,  I  am  not  regretting.  And  Soper  is 
getting  tired  of  me,  I  am  happy  to  say." 

Patience  rose  and  went  into  the  room  where  the 
maid  had  carried  her  hat  and  jacket.  It  was  a  bed- 
room, a  white  nest  of  lace  and  velvet.  When  she  re- 
turned she  said  :  "  I  should  like  to  go  home  and  think 
it  over.  I  feel  queer  and  stunned.  You  have  taken  me 
so  completely  by  surprise  that  I  can  hardly  think." 

Rosita  coloured  angrily. 

"You  are  shocked,  I  suppose,"  she  said  with  a 
sneer.  "I  should  think  —  "  She  paused  abruptly. 
She  was  still  an  amiable  little  soul. 

Patience  understood  perfectly,  and  turned  a  shade 
paler.  "  I  told  you  that  I  did  not  understand  how  I 
felt.  In  fact,  I  hardly  ever  know  just  how  I  feel  about 
anything.  I  suppose  it  is  because  I  have  the  sort  of 


148    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

mind  that  is  made  to  analyse,  and  I  have  n't  had  experi- 
ence enough  to  know  how.  And  I  never  judge  any  one. 
Why  should  I  ?  Why  should  we  judge  anybody  ?  We 
are  not  all  made  alike.  I  could  n't  do  what  you  have 
done,  but  that  is  no  reason  why  I  should  condemn  you. 
That  would  be  absurd.  If  any  one  else  had  told  me 
this  story  I  should  only  have  been  interested  —  I  am  so 
curious  about  everything.  But  you  see  you  are  the  only 
girl  friend  I  ever  had,  and  that  is  what  makes  me  feel 
so  strangely.  Good-bye ;  "  and  she  hurriedly  left  the 
room. 


XV 


WHEN  she  reached  home  she  forgot  her  horror  of 
death  chambers,  and  went  to  Miss  Tremont's  room  and 
flung  herself  on  the  bed.  She  did  not  cry  —  her  tears 
had  all  been  spent ;  but  she  felt  something  of  the  pro- 
found misery  of  the  last  year  in  Monterey.  During  the 
intervening  years  she  had  seen  little  of  the  cloven  hoof 
of  human  nature ;  the  occasional  sin  over  on  Hog 
Heights  hardly  counted ;  creatures  of  the  lower  con- 
ditions had  no  high  lights  to  make  the  shadows  start- 
ling. But  to-day  the  horror  of  old  experiences  rushed 
over  her;  she  was  filled  with  a  profound  loathing  of 
life,  of  human  nature. 

So  far,  of  love,  in  its  higher  sense  —  if  it  possessed 
such  a  part  —  she  had  seen  nothing ;  of  sensuality,  too 
much.  True,  she  had  spent  two  weeks  with  Miss  Gal- 
pin,  during  that  estimable  young  woman's  engagement ; 
but  Miss  Galpin  took  love  as  a  sort  of  front-parlour, 
evening-dress  affair,  and  Patience  had  not  deigned  to 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     149 

be  interested.  She  had  speculated  somewhat  over  Miss 
Tremont's  early  romance,  but  could  only  conclude  that 
it  was  one  of  those  undeveloped  little  histories  that  so 
many  old  maids  cherish. 

She  recalled  all  the  love  stories  she  had  read.  Even 
the  masters  were  insipid  when  they  attempted  to  por- 
tray spiritual  love.  It  was  only  when  they  got  down  to 
the  congenial  substratum  of  passion  that  they  wrote  of 
love  with  colour  and  fire.  Was  she  to  believe  that  it  did 
not  exist,  —  this  union  of  soul  and  mind  ?  Her  dreams 
receded,  and  refused  to  cohere.  She  wondered,  with 
natural  egoism,  if  any  girl  of  her  age  had  ever  re- 
ceived so  many  shocks.  She  was  on  the  threshold 
of  life,  with  a  mass  of  gross  material  out  of  which  to 
shape  her  mental  attitude  to  existing  things.  True,  she 
had  met  only  women  of  relative  sinlessness  during  these 
last  years,  but  their  purity  was  uninteresting  because 
it  was  that  of  people  mentally  limited,  and  possessed  of 
the  fad  of  the  unintellectual.  Moreover,  they  had  their 
erotism,  the  oddest,  most  unreal,  and  harmless  erotism 
the  world  has  known  in  the  last  two  thousand  years ; 
and  after  all  quite  incidental :  her  keen  eyes  had  long 
since  observed  that  the  old  maids  were  far  more  reli- 
gious than  the  married  women,  that  the  girls  cooled 
perceptibly  to  the  great  abstraction  as  soon  as  a  con- 
crete candidate  was  approved. 

She  longed  passionately  for  Miss  Tremont.  All  her 
old  restlessness  and  doubt  had  returned  with  the  flight 
of  that  ardent  absorbing  personality.  She  wished  that 
she  could  have  been  remodelled ;  for,  after  all,  the  dear 
old  lady,  whatever  her  delusions,  had  been  happy. 
But  she  was  still  Patience  Sparhawk ;  she  could  only 
be  thankful  that  Miss  Tremont  had  cemented  her  hatred 
of  evil. 


150    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

She  rose  abruptly,  worn  out  by  conjectures  and 
analysis  that  led  nowhere,  and  went  out  into  the  woods. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  lifting  her  arms,  "  this  at  least  is 
beautiful." 

The  ground  was  hard  and  white  and  sparkling.  The 
trees  were  crystal,  down  to  the  tiniest  twig.  They 
glittered  iridescently  under  the  level  rays  of  the  sun 
descending  upon  the  Palisades  on  the  far  side  of  the 
Hudson.  The  river  was  grey  under  great  floating 
blocks  of  ice.  Groves  of  slender  trees  in  the  hollows 
of  the  Palisades  looked  like  fine  bunches  of  feathers. 
On  the  long  slopes  the  white  snow  lay  deep ;  above, 
the  dark  steeps  were  merely  powdered,  here  and  there ; 
on  the  high  crest  the  woods  looked  black. 

She  walked  rapidly  up  and  down,  calmed,  as  of  old, 
by  the  beauty  of  nature,  but  dreading  the  morrow  and 
the  recurring  to-morrows.  Suddenly  through  those 
glittering  aisles  pealed  the  rich  sonorous  music  of  the 
organ.  The  keys  were  under  the  hands  of  a  master, 
and  the  great  notes  throbbed  and  swelled  and  rolled 
through  the  winter  stillness  in  the  divine  harmonies  of 
"The  Messiah."  Patience  stood  still,  shaking  a  little. 
On  a  hill  above  the  wood  a  large  house  had  been  built 
recently ;  the  organ  must  be  there. 

The  diamond  radiance  of  the  woods  was  living 
melody.  The  very  trees  looked  to  bow  their  crystal 
heads.  The  great  waves  of  harmony  seemed  rolling 
down  from  an  infinite  height,  down  from  some  cathe- 
dral of  light  and  stars. 

The  ugly  impressions  of  the  day  vanished.  The 
sweet  intangible  longing  she  had  been  used  to  know  in 
Carmel  tower  flashed  back  to  her.  What  was  it?  She 
recalled  the  words  of  the  Stranger.  It  was  long  since 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     151 

she  had  thought  of  him.  She  closed  her  eyes  and 
stood  with  him  in  the  tower.  His  voice  was  as  distinct 
as  the  notes  of  the  organ.  She  felt  again  the  tumult  of 
her  young  half-comprehending  mind.  Was  not  life  all 
a  matter  of  ideals?  Were  not  the  bad  and  the  good 
happy  only  if  consistent  to  a  fixed  idea?  Did  she 
make  of  herself  such  a  woman  as  the  Stranger  had 
evoked  out  of  the  great  mass  of  small  feminity,  could 
she  not  be  supremely  happy  with  such  a  man  ?  Where 
was  he?  Was  he  married?  He  seemed  so  close  — 
it  was  incredible  that  he  existed  for  another  woman. 
Who  more  surely  than  she  could  realise  the  purest 
ideal  of  her  imaginings,  —  she  with  her  black  experi- 
ence and  hatred  of  all  that  was  coarse  and  evil  ?  She 
closed  her  eyes  to  her  womanhood  no  longer.  It 
thrilled  and  shook  her.  If  he  would  come  —  She 
trembled  a  little. 

All  men  were  henceforth  possible  lovers.  Unless  the 
Stranger  appeared  speedily  his  memory  must  give  way 
to  the  definite.  The  imperious  demands  of  a  woman's 
nature  cannot  be  satisfied  with  abstractions.  The  ideal 
which  he  stood  for  would  lend  a  measure  of  itself  to 
each  engaging  man  with  whom  she  exchanged  greeting. 


XVI 

"  Miss  PATIENCE  !  "  cried  a  strident  voice. 

Patience  turned  with  a  violent  start.  Ellen  was  a 
large  blotch  on  the  white  beauty  of  the  wood. 

"  There  's  a  young  lady  to  see  you.  She  did  n't  give 
her  name  as  I  remember." 


152    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Patience  followed  the  servant  resentfully.  The  world 
was  cold  and  dull  again.  But  when  she  recognised  the 
Peele  coachman  and  footman  on  the  handsome  sleigh 
before  the  door  she  forgot  her  dreams,  and  went  eagerly 
into  the  house. 

A  girl  was  standing  before  the  mantel,  regarding 
through  a  lorgnette  a  row  of  photographs.  She  turned 
as  she  heard  footsteps,  and  came  forward  with  a  cordial 
smile  on  her  plain  charming  face.  She  wore  a  black 
cloth  frock  and  turban  which  made  Patience  feel  dowdy 
as  Rosita's  magnificence  had  not. 

"I  am  Hal,"  she  said,  "and  you  are  Patience,  of 
course.  I  hope  you  have  heard  as  much  of  me  as  I 
have  of  you.  Dear  old  girl,  I  was  awfully  fond  of  her. 
You  look  so  tired  —  are  you?  " 

"  A  little.  It  is  so  good  of  you  to  come.  Yes,  I  've 
heard  a  very  great  deal  of  you." 

"  I  '11  sit  down,  thank  you.  Let 's  try  this  sofa.  I  've 
already  tried  the  chairs,  and  they  're  awful.  But  I  sup- 
pose dear  old  Harriet  never  sat  down  at  all.  I  wonder 
if  she  '11  be  happy  in  heaven  with  nothing  to  do." 

Patience  smiled  sympathetically.  "  She  ought  to  be 
glad  of  a  rest,  but  I  don't  believe  she  is." 

"  She  thought  we  were  all  heathens  —  dear  old  soul ; 
but  I  did  love  her.  What  was  the  trouble  ?  We  only 
had  one  short  letter  from  Miss  Beale.  Do  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

Miss  Peele  had  an  air  of  reposeful  alertness.  She 
leaned  forward  slightly,  her  eyes  fixed  on  Patience's 
with  flattering  attention.  She  looked  a  youthful  world- 
ling, a  captivating  type  to  a  country  girl.  Her  voice 
was  very  sweet,  and  exquisitely  modulated.  Occasion- 
ally it  went  down  into  a  minor  key. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    153 

"What  shall  you  do  with  yourself,  now?  "  she  asked 
anxiously,  when  Patience  had  finished  the  brief  story. 
"  I  am  so  interested  in  you.  I  don't  know  why  I 
have  n't  called  before,  except  that  I  never  find  time  to 
do  the  things  I  most  care  for ;  but  I  have  wanted  to 
come  a  dozen  times,  and  when  we  returned  yesterday 
and  heard  of  the  dear  old  girl's  death  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  come  at  once.  And  I  'm  coming  often.  I 
know  we  shall  be  such  good  friends.  I  'm  so  glad  she 
left  you  her  money  so  you  won't  have  to  work.  It 
must  be  so  horrid  to  work.  I  'm  going  to  ask  mamma 
to  ask  you  to  visit  us.  She  's  feeling  rather  soft  now 
over  Cousin  Harriet's  death,  so  I  '11  strike  before  she 
gets  the  icebergs  on.  She  is  n't  pleasant  then.  I  '11 
tell  her  you  don't  wear  the  white  ribbon  yet  —  "  She 
broke  into  a  light  peal  of  laughter.  "  Poor  mamma  ! 
how  she  used  to  suffer.  Cousin  Harriet's  white  bow  was 
the  great  cross  of  her  life.  It  will  go  far  toward  recon- 
ciling her  —  Don't  think  that  my  parent  is  heartless. 
She  merely  insists  upon  everything  belonging  to  her  to 
be  sans  reproche.  That 's  the  reason  we  don't  always 
get  along.  What  lovely  hair  you  have  —  a  real  blonde 
cendrSe.  It 's  all  the  rage  in  Paris.  And  that  great  coil 
is  beautiful.  Tell  me,  did  n't  you  find  that  Temperance 
work  a  hideous  bore?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  no  one  could  resist  Miss  Tremont." 

"  Indeed  one  could  n't.  I  believe  she  'd  have  roped 
me  in  if  I  'd  lived  with  her ;  but  I  'm  a  frivolous 
good-for-nothing  thing.  You  look  so  serious.  Do  you 
always  feel  that  way  ?  " 

Patience  smiled  broadly.  "Oh,  no.  I  often  feel 
that  I  would  be  very  frivolous  indeed  if  circumstances 
would  permit.  It  must  be  very  interesting." 


154    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  You  get  tired  of  yourself  sometimes —  I  mean  I  do. 
Are  you  very  religious?" 

"  I  am  not  religious  at  all." 

"  Oh,  how  awfully  jolly.  I  do  the  regulation  busi- 
ness, but  it  is  really  tragic  to  carry  so  much  religion 
round  all  the  time.  I  wonder  how  Cousin  Harriet  and 
the  Lord  hit  it  off,  or  if  they  liked  each  other  better 
at  a  distance?  I  corresponded  once  with  the  brother 
of  a  school  friend  for  a  year,  and  when  I  met  him  I 
couldn't  endure  him.  Those  things  are  very  trying. 
I  am  going  to  call  you  Patience.  May  I  ?  And  if  ever 
you  call  me  Miss  Peele  you  '11  be  sorry.  How  awfully 
smart  you  'd  look  in  gowns.  My  colouring  is  so  com- 
monplace. If  I  did  n't  know  how  to  dress,  and  had  n't 
been  taught  to  carry  myself  with  an  air,  I  'd  be  just 
nothing  —  no  more  and  no  less.  But  you  have  such  a 
lovely  nose  and  white  skin  —  and  that  hair  !  You  are 
aristocratic  looking  without  being  swagger.  I  'm  the 
other  way.  You  can  acquire  the  one,  but  you  can't  the 
other.  When  you  have  both  you  '11  be  out  of  sight. 

"What  fun  it  would  be,"  she  rambled  on  in  her 
bright  inconsequential  way,  "  if  Bev  should  fall  in  love 
with  you  and  you  'd  marry  him.  Then  I  'd  have  such  fun 
dressing  you,  and  we  'd  get  ahead  of  my  cousin  Honora 
Mairs,  whom  I  hate,  and  who,  I  'm  afraid,  will  get  him. 
Propinquity  and  flattery  will  bring  down  any  man  — 
they  're  such  peacocks.  But  I  '11  bring  him  to  see  you. 
You  ought  to  have  a  violet  velvet  frock.  I  'd  bet  on 
Bev  then.  But,  of  course,  you  can't  wear  colours  yet, 
and  that  dead  black  is  wonderfully  becoming.  Can  I 
bring  him  up  in  a  day  or  two?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Patience,  smiling  as  she  recalled  her 
brief  periods  of  spiritual  matrimony  with  Beverly  Peele ; 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    155 

"  by  all  means.  I  '11  be  so  glad  to  meet  all  of  you.  And 
you  are  certainly  good  to  take  so  much  interest  in  me." 

"  I  am  the  angel  of  the  family.  Well,  I  must  be  off, 
or  I  '11  have  to  dine  all  by  me  lonely.  None  of  the 
rest  of  the  family  uses  slang :  that  is  the  reason  I  do. 
May  is  a  grown-up  baby,  and  never  disobeyed  her 
mamma  in  her  life.  Honora  is  a  classic,  and  only 
swears  in  the  privacy  of  her  closet  when  her  schemes 
fail.  Mother  —  well,  you  Ve  seen  mother.  As  you  may 
imagine,  she  does  n't  use  slang.  Papa  does  n't  talk 
at  all,  and  Bev  is  a  prig  where  decent  women  are  con- 
cerned. So,  you  see,  I  have  to  let  off  steam  somehow, 
and  as  I  have  n't  the  courage  to  be  larky,  I  read  French 
novels  and  use  bad  words." 

She  rose  and  moved  toward  a  heavy  coat  that  lay  on  a 
chair.  "Well,  Patience  —  what  a  funny  lovely  old-fash- 
ioned name  you  have  —  I  'm  going  to  bring  Bev  to  see 
you  as  a  last  resource.  I  Ve  tried  him  on  a  dozen  other 
girls,  but  it  was  no  go.  I  '11  talk  you  up  to  him  meanwhile 
—  I  '11  tell  him  that  you  are  one  of  the  cold  haughty  in- 
different sort,  and  yet  withal  a  village  maiden.  He  ad- 
mires blondes,  and  you  're  such  a  natural  one.  We  '11 
come  up  Sunday  on  horseback.  Now  be  sure  to  make 
him  think  you  don't  care  a  hang  whether  he  likes  you 
or  not —  he  's  been  so  run  after.  Is  n't  it  too  funny  ?  I 
did  not  come  here  on  matchmaking  thoughts  intent,  but 
I  do  like  you,  and  we  could  have  such  jolly  good  fun 
together.  I  '11  teach  you  how  to  smoke  cigarettes —  " 

"  But  Miss  Peele  —  Hal  —  you  know  —  I  don't  want 
to  marry  your  brother  —  I  have  never  even  seen  him  — 
much  as  I  should  like  to  live  with  you  —  I  'd  even 
smoke  cigarettes  to  please  you  —  but  really  — " 

"Oh,  I  know,  of  course.     I  can  only  hope  for  the 


156    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

best,  and  Bev  certainly  is  fascinating.  At  least  he 
appears  to  be,"  and  she  smiled  oddly ;  "  but  being  a 
man's  sister  is  much  like  being  his  valet,  you  know. 
Would  you  mind  helping  me  into  this  coat? 

"  I  hate  these  heavy  fur  things,"  she  said  petulantly. 
"  Oh,  thanks  —  they  don't  suit  my  light  and  airy  archi- 
tecture, and  I  can't  get  up  any  dignity  in  them  at  all. 
I  need  fluffy  graceful  French  things.  You  'd  look 
superb  in  velvet  and  furs  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
Well,  bye-bye,  —  no,  —  au  revoir" 

She  took  Patience's  face  between  her  hands  and 
lightly  kissed  her  on  either  cheek. 

"  Don't  be  lonesome,"  she  said.  "  I  'd  go  frantic  in 
this  house.  Can't  I  send  you  some  books  ?  I  Ve  a  lot 
of  naughty  French  ones  —  " 

"  No  !  "  said  Patience,  abruptly,  "  I  don't  want 
them.  Don't  think  I  'm  a  prig,"  she  added,  hastily,  as 
a  look  of  apprehension  crossed  Miss  Peele's  face  ;  "  but 
I  had  a  hideous  shock  to-day,  and  I  don't  want  to  read 
anything  similar  at  present  —  " 

"  Oh,  tell  me  about  it.  How  could  you  have  a  shock 
in  Mariaville?" 

"  I  did  n't.     It  was  in  New  York  —  " 

"  Oh,  was  it  real  wicked  ?  Did  you  have  an  adven- 
ture? Do  tell  me —  Well,  don't,  of  course,  if  you  don't 
want  to,  only  I  'm  so  interested  in  you.  Well,  I  must, 
must  go ; "  and  despite  the  furs  she  moved  down  the 
walk  with  exceeding  grace.  As  she  drove  off  she 
leaned  out  of  the  sleigh  and  waved  her  hand. 

"  Oh  !  "  thought  Patience,  "  I  'm  so  glad  she  came. 
It  was  like  fresh  air  after  a  corpse  covered  with  sachet 
bags."  And  then  she  went  to  the  mantel  and  gazed 
upon  Beverly  Peele. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    157 


XVII 

WHEN  Sunday  came  Patience  dressed  herself  with  un- 
usual care.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  people  in 
different  spheres  of  life  arose  at  different  hours,  and 
she  expected  her  guests  any  time  after  eight  o'clock. 

Of  course  she  must  wear  unrelieved  black,  but  after 
prolonged  regard  in  the  becoming  mirror  of  the  best 
spare  room,  she  decided  that  it  rather  enhanced  her 
charms,  now  that  a  week's  rest  had  banished  the  circles 
from  her  eyes  and  cleared  her  skin. 

She  had  coiled  her  soft  ashen  hair  loosely  on  the  top 
of  her  head,  pulling  it  out  a  little  about  her  face  —  she 
wore  no  bangs.  Her  restless  eyes  were  dark  and  clear 
and  sparkling,  her  mouth  pink.  She  carried  her  slen- 
der figure  with  a  free  graceful  poise.  The  carriage  of 
her  head  was  almost  haughty.  Her  hips  had  a  gener- 
ous swell.  Her  hands  and  teeth  were  very  white. 

"  I  certainly  have  a  look  of  race,"  she  thought,  "  if 
I  'm  not  a  beauty.  I  'd  give  a  good  deal  to  know  that 
my  ancestors  really  did  have  good  blood  in  their  veins. 
I  don't  care  so  much  for  money,  but  I  'd  like  to  be  sure 
of  that." 

After  breakfast  she  wandered  about  restlessly.  She 
had  known  few  moments  of  peace  since  Miss  Peele's 
visit.  The  train  had  been  fired,  and  her  being  was  in  a 
tumult.  Beverly  Peele,  the  Stranger,  and  the  vague 
ideals  of  her  earlier  girlhood  were  inextricably  mixed. 
The  result  was  a  being  before  whom  she  trembled  with 
mingled  rapture  and  terror.  Her  vivid  imagination 
had  evoked  a  distinct  entity,  and  the  love  scenes  that 


158    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

had  been  enacted  between  the  girl  and  this  wholly  sat- 
isfactory eidolon  were  such  as  have  time  out  of  mind 
made  life  as  it  is  seem  a  singularly  defective  composi- 
tion to  the  wondering  mind  of  woman. 

At  times  she  was  terrified  at  the  rich  possibilities  of 
her  nature,  so  little  suspected.  The  revelation  gave 
her  vivid  comprehension  of  woman's  tremendous  power 
for  sacrifice  and  surrender,  possibilities  of  which  she 
had  read  with  much  curiosity,  but  little  sympathy.  For 
those  women  she  felt  a  warm  honour,  a  fierce  desire  to 
espouse  their  cause.  For  Rosita  she  had  only  loathing 
and  contempt. 

It  was  not  only  passion  that  was  awake.  Sentiment, 
that  finer  child  of  the  brain,  and  the  sweet  faint  feeling 
which  assuredly  lingers  about  the  region  of  the  heart, 
whatever  its  physical  cause  may  be,  were  there  in  full 
measure  to  lend  their  potent  lashings  to  that  primeval 
force  which  is  as  mighty  in  some  women  as  in  some 
men.  It  is  doubtful  if  a  woman  ever  loves  a  man  when 
in  his  arms  with  the  same  exaltation  of  soul  and  passion 
which  she  feels  for  that  creation  of  her  brain  that  he 
little  more  than  suggests,  and  that  is  only  wholly  hers 
when  the  man  himself  is  absent.  Imagination  in 
woman  is  as  arbitrary  as  desire  in  man,  and  she  is 
beaten  down  and  crushed  by  this  imperious  and  capri- 
cious brain-imp  so  many  times  in  her  life  that  the 
wonder  is  she  is  not  driven  to  the  hopes  and  illusions  of 
religion,  or  to  humour,  long  before  the  skin  has  yellowed 
and  the  eye  paled. 

And  when  the  imagination  has  full  sway,  when  the 
man  has  not  been  beheld,  when  he  has  been  invested 
with  every  quality  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  generously 
endowed  woman,  when,  indeed,  all  eidola  blend,  and 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    159 

she  has  a  confused  vision  of  an  immense  and  mighty 
force  bearing  down  upon  her  which  shall  sweep  every 
tradition  out  of  existence  and  annihilate  the  material 
world,  then  assuredly  man  himself  would  do  well  to 
retire  into  obscurity  and  curse  his  shortcomings. 

It  was  four  o'clock,  and  she  had  been  through  the 
successive  stages  of  hope,  despair,  hope,  melancholia, 
hope,  and  resignation,  before  she  heard  the  sharp  clat- 
ter of  hoofs  on  the  road.  She  ran  to  the  dining-room 
window,  her  heart  thumping,  and  peered  through  the 
blind.  They  were  coming  !  Hal  sat  her  horse  like  a 
swaying  reed,  but  the  young  man  on  the  large  chestnut 
rode  in  the  agonised  fashion  of  the  day.  He  was  of 
medium  height,  she  saw,  compactly  and  elegantly  built, 
and  the  beauty  of  his  face  had  defied  the  photographer's 
art. 

Patience  ran  to  the  kitchen  and  told  Ellen  to  answer 
the  bell  immediately,  then  sat  down  by  the  stove  to 
compose  herself.  She  was  still  trembling,  and  wished 
to  appear  cold  and  stately,  as  Hal  had  recommended. 
When  Ellen  returned  and  announced  the  visitors,  she 
sprang  up,  patted  her  hair,  pulled  down  the  bodice  of 
her  gown,  and  then,  with  what  dignity  she  could  mus- 
ter, went  forth  to  meet  her  fate.  She  did  wish  she  had 
a  train.  It  was  so  difficult  to  be  stately  in  a  skirt  that 
cleared  the  ground. 

As  she  entered  the  parlour  Mr.  Peele  was  standing 
by  the  opposite  door.  His  riding  gear  was  very  becom- 
ing. Patience  noted  swiftly  that  his  eyes  were  a  spotted 
brown  and  that  his  mouth  pouted  under  the  dark 
moustache. 

Hal  came  forward  with  both  hands  extended.  "  We 
have  come,  you  see,"  she  said,  "and  we  had  to  make  a 


160    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

wild  break  to  do  it  —  had  a  lot  of  company;  but  I 
was  bound  to  come.  Patience,  this  is  Beverly.  He  's 
quite  frantic  to  meet  you.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to 
keep  him  away  until  to-day." 

The  young  man  bowed  in  anything  but  a  frantic 
manner,  and  stood  gracefully  until  the  girls  were  seated. 
Then  he  took  a  chair  and  caressed  his  moustache, 
regarding  Patience  attentively. 

"Would  you  mind  if  Bev  smoked?"  asked  Hal. 
"  He  is  just  wild  for  a  cigar.  We  had  to  ride  so  hard 
to  keep  warm  that  he  did  n't  have  a  chance,  and  he  's 
a  slave  to  the  weed." 

Patience  glanced  swiftly  at  the  door,  half-expecting 
to  see  the  indignant  wraith  of  Miss  Tremont,  then, 
almost  reluctantly,  gave  the  required  permission.  Mr. 
Peele  promptly  lit  a  cigar.  Patience  wondered  if  he 
would  ever  speak.  Perhaps  he  did  not  think  it  worth 
his  while.  He  looked  very  haughty. 

"  We  had  a  perfectly  beautiful  ride,"  said  Hal,  in 
her  plaintive  voice.  "  I  'd  rather  be  on  a  horse  than 
on  an  ocean  steamer,  and  I  do  love  to  travel.  You 
look  ever  so  much  better  than  you  did,  Patience.  You 
must  have  needed  a  rest." 

Mr.  Peele  removed  his  cigar.  "  Perhaps  that  was  what 
she  had  been  /^patiently  waiting  for,"  he  remarked. 

Patience  stared  at  him.  Her  eyes  expanded.  Some- 
thing seemed  crumbling  within  her. 

"  Oh,  Bev,  you  do  make  me  so  tired,"  said  his  sister. 
"  I  tell  him  eighteen  times  a  day  that  punning  is  the 
lowest  form  of  wit,  but  he  's  incorrigible.  I  suppose  it 's 
in  the  blood,  and  I  'm  glad  it  broke  out  in  him  instead 
of  in  me.  It  is  well  to  be  philosophical  in  this 
life—" 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     161 

"When  you  can't  help  yourself — "  interrupted  Mr. 
Peele,  easily. 

Patience  felt  it  incumbent  upon  her  to  make  conver- 
sation, although  her  thoughts  were  dancing  a  jig. 

"  You  have  a  beautiful  horse,"  she  said  to  the  young 
man. 

His  eyes  lit  up  with  enthusiasm.  '*  Is  n't  she  a 
beauty?"  he  exclaimed.  "She's  taken  two  prizes 
and  won  a  race.  She  's  the  daughter —  " 

"Patience  doesn't  know  anything  about  horses," 
interrupted  Hal.  "What  does  she  care  whose  daughter 
Firefly  is?" 

"  Oh,  I  'm  very  much  interested,"  faltered  Patience. 

"Are  you  really?"  cried  Mr.  Peele,  with  a  smile  so 
beautiful  that  Patience  caught  her  breath.  "  I  Ve  got 
the  rarest  book  in  the  country  on  horses  —  beautiful 
pictures  —  coloured  —  I  '11  bring  it  up  and  explain  it  to 
you.  Tell  you  a  lot  of  stories  about  famous  horses." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted." 

"Do  you  ride?" 

"  I  used  to  ride  a  pony,  but  I  have  n't  been  on  a 
horse  for  so  long  I  Ve  almost  forgotten  what  it 's  like." 

"That's  too  bad.  There 's  nothing  like  it.  Makes 
you  feel  so  good.  When  I  have  dyspepsia  I  just  jump 
on  Firefly,  and  I  'm  all  right  in  less  than  no  time.  I 
take  a  canter  for  dyspepsia  —  although  I  can't  —  er  — 
always  feel  at  home  that  way.  Ahem  !  " 

Patience  wanted  to  tear  her  hair.  It  was  with  an 
effort  that  she  kept  her  face  from  convulsing  with  dis- 
gust. She  caught  sight  of  the  young  man's  intellectual 
brow,  and,  without  any  premonitory  consciousness, 
laughed  aloud.  Mr.  Peele  smiled  back  with  the 
pleasure  of  appreciated  wit,  and  resumed  his  cigar. 

ii 


1 62    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Bev  is  n't  such  a  fool  as  he  looks,"  remarked  Hal, 
airily.  "  Just  have  patience  with  him.  We  all  have 
our  little  failings." 

Patience  sat  as  if  turned  to  clay.  She  could  not 
talk.  All  her  natural  animation  had  deserted  her.  She 
wished  they  would  go  and  leave  her  alone.  But  Hal 
pulled  off  her  riding  gloves,  and  made  herself  comfort- 
able on  the  sofa.  As  she  rattled  on,  Patience  noticed 
how  beautiful  her  nails  were.  She  turned  her  own 
hands  over  so  that  the  palms  lay  upward. 

"Never  mind,"  said  young  Peele,  in  a  low  tone. 
"They're  much  prettier." 

"  What 's  that?  "  cried  Hal.  "  What  are  you  blush- 
ing about,  Patience?  How  lovely  it  is  to  blush  like 
that.  I  Ve  forgotten  how  —  and  I  'm  only  twenty-two. 
There's  tragedy  for  you.  It's  not  that  I've  had  so 
many  compliments  about  my  beauty,  nor  yet  about  my 
winning  ways,  —  which  are  my  strong  point,  —  but  I 
found  so  much  to  blush  about  when  I  was  first  launched 
upon  this  wicked  world  that  I  exhausted  my  capacity. 
And  Bev  always  did  tell  such  naughty  stories — "  She 
paused  abruptly.  "  Dear  me  !  perhaps  I  Ve  made  a 
bad  break,  and  prejudiced  you  against  my  brother ; 
and  I  want  you  to  be  good  friends  so  that  we  can  have 
jolly  times  together.  Perhaps  you  have  an  ideal  man 
—  a  sort  of  Sir  Galahad.  I  haven't  sounded  you  yet." 

"  Sir  Galahad  is  not  my  ideal,"  said  Patience, 
with  the  quick  scorn  of  the  woman  who  is  born  with 
intuitive  knowledge  of  man.  "  I  could  not  find  any- 
thing interesting  in  an  elongated  male  infant." 

"  Oh,  how  lovely  !  "  cried  Hal.  "  Give  me  the  man 
of  the  world  every  time.  I  tell  you,  you  appreciate  the 
difference  when  you  have  to  entertain  'em.  And  the 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    163 

elongated  infant,  as  you  put  it,  never  understands  a 
woman,  and  she  has  no  use  for  that  species  whatever. 
He  does  n't  even  want  to  understand  her,  and  a  woman 
resents  that  as  a  personal  insult.  The  bad  ones  hurt 
sometimes,  but  they  're  interesting ;  and  when  you  learn 
how  to  manage  them  it 's  plain  sailing  enough.  Mrs. 
Laurence  Gibbs  —  a  friend  of  mamma's,  awfully  good, 
goes  in  for  charity  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  —  said  the 
other  day  that  at  the  rate  women  were  developing  and 
advancing,  the  standard  of  men  morally  would  have  to 
be  raised.  But  I  said  '  Not  much  ! '  that  the  develop- 
ment of  woman  meant  that  women  were  becoming 
more  clever,  not  merely  bright  and  intellectual,  and 
that  clever  women  would  demand  cleverness  and  fas- 
cination in  man  above  all  else ;  and  that  Sir  Galahads 
were  not  that  sort.  It 's  experience  that  makes  a  man 
interesting  to  us  women,  —  they  represent  all  we  'd  like 
to  be  and  don't  dare.  If  they  were  like  ourselves  —  if 
they  didn't  excite  our  imaginations  —  we  wouldn't 
care  a  hang  for  them.  Mrs.  Gibbs  was  horrified,  of 
course,  and  told  me  I  did  n't  know  what  I  was  talking 
about.  But  I  said  I  guessed  it  was  the  other  way. 
I  'm  not  clever  —  not  by  a  long  sight,  —  and  if  I  can't 
stand  a  prig  I  know  a  clever  woman  can't  and  won't." 

"  I  'm  so  glad  I  'm  not  a  prig,"  murmured  Mr. 
Peele. 

"  Oh,  you  're  a  real  devil.  If  you  were  clever  now, 
you  'd  have  to  be  shut  up  to  protect  society ;  but  as  it 
is,  you  just  go  on  your  good  looks,  so  you  're  not  as 
dangerous  as  some." 

She  rattled  on,  not  giving  the  others  a  chance  for 
more  than  a  stray  remark.  Patience,  listening  with  deep 
curiosity  to  this  new  philosophy,  became  aware  of  an 


164  Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

increasing  desire  to  turn  her  eyes  to  the  man  that  had 
so  bitterly  disappointed  her.  A  direct  potent  force 
seemed  to  emanate  from  him.  It  was  her  first  experi- 
ence of  man's  magnetism,  but  she  knew  that  he  pos- 
sessed it  to  a  remarkable  degree.  When  he  finally 
shot  out  an  insignificant  remark  she  felt,  in  the  excuse 
it  gave  her  to  turn  to  him,  a  sensation  of  positive  re- 
lief. He  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  in  the  easy 
attitude  of  a  man  that  has  been  too  accustomed  to 
luxury  all  his  life  to  look  uncomfortable  in  any  circum- 
stances. With  his  picturesque  garb,  his  noble,  beauti- 
ful face,  his  subtle  air  of  elegance  and  distinction,  he 
looked  the  ideal  hero  of  girlhood's  dreams.  Patience 
wondered  what  Nature  had  been  about,  then  recalled 
the  many  tricks  of  that  capricious  dame  made  famous 
in  history,  the  round  innocent  faces  of  the  worst  boys 
in  the  Loyal  Legion  class,  the  saintly  physiognomy 
of  a  Mariaville  minister  who  had  recently  fallen  from 
grace. 

Peele  was  watching  her  out  of  his  half-closed  eyes, 
and  as  she  met  them  he  smiled  almost  affectionately. 
Patience  averted  her  head  quickly,  angry  that  she  had 
felt  an  impulse  to  respond,  and  fixed  her  attention  on 
Hal.  "  Dear  old  Cousin  Harriet,"  that  young  woman 
was  remarking,  "how  I  do  wish  that  I  were  even 
sorrier  than  I  am  that  she  is  dead.  I  try  to  think  it 's 
because  I  saw  so  little  of  her ;  but  I  know  it 's  just 
because  I  'm  so  beastly  selfish.  I  don't  care  a  hang 
for  anything  that  does  n't  affect  my  own  happiness  —  " 

"  You  're  not  selfish,"  interrupted  Patience,  indig- 
nantly. 

"  Oh,  but  I  am,"  said  Miss  Peele,  with  a  comical 
little  air  of  disgust  which  sat  as  gracefully  upon  her  as 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     165 

all  her  varying  moods  and  manners.  "  I  get  up  think- 
ing what  I  can  get  out  of  the  day,  and  I  go  to  bed  glad 
or  mad  according  to  what  the  day  has  done  for  me.  I 
don't  go  in  for  Church  work  like  Honora  —  dear 
Honora  !  —  nor  am  I  always  doing  some  pretty  little 
thing  for  people  like  May.  I  suppose  you  think  I  'm 
an  angel  because  I  came  to  see  you.  I  assured  myself 
at  great  length  that  it  was  my  duty  —  but  it  was  plain 
curiosity,  no  more  nor  less ;  and  now  I  like  you  awfully, 
better  than  any  woman  I  ever  met  —  and  I  do  so  want 
you  to  come  and  visit  us,  but —  " 

"Couldn't  you  come  and  stay  with  me?"  asked 
Patience,  hurriedly.  She  had  no  desire  to  visit  Mrs. 
Gardiner  Peele.  "You  know  you  have  more  or  less 
company,  and  I  should  be  very  quiet  for  a  while. 
And  oh  !  I  should  so  like  to  have  you." 

"  Oh,  I  'd  love  to  !  I  '11  come  and  stay  a  week.  I  'm 
so  sick  of  the  whole  family,  Bev  included.  We  won't 
be  going  anywhere  for  three  months  out  of  respect  for 
Cousin  Harriet  —  mamma  is  very  particular  about  those 
things  —  and  I  can  get  away  as  well  as  not.  I  '11  come 
on  Tuesday,  —  can  I  ?  Bev  will  come  up  occasionally 
and  see  how  I  'm  getting  on  —  won't  you,  Bevvy,  dear  ?  " 

"  I  'd  much  rather  you  would  not  be  here,"  said  Mr. 
Peele,  calmly. 

"  Oh  —  really  —  well,  we  're  all  young  yet.  I  'm 
coming  all  the  same.  I  suppose  we  must  be  going. 
We  have  to  get  home  to  dress  for  dinner,  you  know." 

She  rose,  and  drew  on  her  gloves.  Her  brother  stood 
up  immediately  and  helped  her  into  her  covert  coat. 
"Well,  Patience,"  she  said,  kissing  her  lightly,  "you'll 
see  me  on  Tuesday.  I  '11  come  by  train,  and  wire  you 
beforehand.  Mamma  '11  raise  Cain,  but  I  '11  manage  it. 


1 66    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

It 's  only  occasionally  she  's  too  much  for  me.  The  cold 
glare  of  those  blue  eyes  of  hers  freezes  my  marrow  at 
times  and  takes  all  the  starch  out  of  me.  It 's  awful  to 
have  been  brought  up  under  that  sort  of  eye.  When 
Honora  marries  it 's  the  sort  of  eye  she  '11  have.  She 
cultivates  the  angelic  at  present.  Have  I  talked  you  to 
death,  Patience?  So  good  of  you  to  ask  me  to  come." 

Peele  held  out  his  hand,  and  Patience  could  do  no 
less  than  lay  hers  within  it.  As  it  closed  she  resisted 
an  impulse  to  nestle  her  own  more  closely  into  that 
warm  grasp.  He  held  her  hand  longer  than  was  alto- 
gether necessary,  and  she  felt  indignantly  that  she  had 
no  desire  to  draw  it  away. 

"That'll  do  for  one  day,"  said  Hal,  drily.  "Come 
along,  Beverly  Peele.  We  won't  get  home  for  coffee  at 
this  rate." 

When  they  had  gone  Patience  threw  herself  on  the 
sofa  and  burst  into  tears,  then  laughed  suddenly.  "  I 
feel  like  the  heroine  of  a  tragedy,"  she  thought.  "  And 
the  tragedy  is  a  pun  ! " 


XVIII 

HAL  arrived  on  Tuesday  afternoon.  Patience  for 
twenty-four  hours  after  Beverly  Peele's  visit  looked 
upon  life  through  grey  spectacles.  She  had  an  im- 
pression of  being  a  solitary  figure  on  a  sandy  waste, 
illimitable  in  extent.  Life  was  ugly  practical  reality. 
It  frightened  her,  and  she  cowered  before  it,  hating  the 
future,  her  blood  chilled,  her  nerves  blunt,  her  brain 
stagnant. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    167 

But  by  Tuesday  morning,  being  young  and  buoyant, 
she  revived,  and  roamed  through  the  woods,  entirely 
loyal  to  the  Stranger.  She  made  up  her  mind  that  she 
would  find  him,  that  he  could  not  be  married.  He 
must  have  waited  for  her.  "Oh  ! "  she  thought,  "if  I 
could  not  believe  that  something  existed  in  this  world 
as  I  have  imagined  it,  some  man  good  enough  to  love 
and  look  up  to,  I  believe  I'd  jump  into  the  river.  At 
least  I  have  heard  Him  talk.  He  could  not  be  a 
disappointment,  like  that  hollow  bronze.  If  there  are 
many  men  in  the  world  like  Beverly  Peele  I  don't 
wonder  women  are  in  revolt.  Women  start  out  in  life 
with  big  ideals  of  man,  and  if  they  are  disappointed  I 
suppose  they  unconsciously  strive  to  make  themselves 
what  they  should  have  found  in  man.  But  it  is  un- 
natural. It  seems  to  me  that  man  must  be  able  to 
give  woman  the  best  she  can  find  in  life,  whether 
he  does  or  not.  Something  in  civilisation  has  gone 
wrong." 

"  I  Ve  been  so  restless,"  she  said  to  Hal,  as  the  girls 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  in  the  spare  room,  holding 
each  other's  hand.  "  If  you  had  not  been  coming  I  'd 
have  gone  to  New  York  before  this  and  seen  Mr.  Field, 
the  editor  of  the  '  Day '  —  He  promised  me  once  he  'd 
make  a  newspaper  woman  of  me  —  " 

"A  what?"  cried  Hal.  "What  on  earth  do  you 
want  to  be  a  newspaper  woman  for  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  must  be  something.  I  could  n't  live  out  of 
Mariaville  on  my  income,  and  the  few  hundred  dollars 
Mr.  Foord  left  me,  and  I  don't  know  of  anything  else 
I  want  to  be." 

"You  are  going  to  be  Mrs.  Beverly  Peele,"  said  Hal, 
definitely.  "  Beverly  has  the  worst  attack  of  my  recol- 


1 68    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

lection.     He  has  simply  raved  about  you.      Tell  me, 
don't  you  like  him?" 

Patience  said  nothing. 

Hal  leaned  forward  and  turned  Patience's  face  about. 
"Don't  you  like  him?"  she  asked  in  a  disappointed 
tone.  "  Tell  me.  Please  be  frank.  I  hate  people  who 
are  not." 

"Well,  I'll  confess  it  —  I  was  disappointed  in  him. 
You  see,  I  'd  thought  about  him  a  good  deal  —  several 
years,  if  you  want  to  know  the  truth  —  and  I  was  sure 
he  was  an  intellectual  man  — " 

Hal  threw  back  her  head  and  gave  a  clear  ringing 
laugh.  "  Bev  intellectual !  That 's  too  funny.  I  don't 
believe  he  ever  read  anything  but  a  newspaper  and 
horse  literature  in  his  life.  But  we  all  think  he  's  bright. 
I  think  it  my  duty  to  tell  you  that  he  has  a  fearful 
temper.  He 's  always  been  mamma's  pet,  and  she  never 
would  cross  him,  so  he  flies  into  regular  tantrums  when 
things  don't  go  to  suit  him ;  but  on  the  whole  he  's 
pretty  good  sort.  Don't  you  think  he 's  good-looking  ?  " 

"  Oh,  wonderfully,"  said  Patience,  glad  to  be  enthu- 
siastic. 

"  Well,  I  'm  sure  you  '11  like  him  when  you  've  forgot- 
ten the  ideal  and  got  used  to  the  real.  Do  please  try 
to  like  him,  for  I  'm  bent  on  having  you  for  a  sister-in- 
law." 

"Well,  I'll  try,"  said  Patience,  laughing. 

"  You  have  no  idea,"  continued  the  astute  Miss  Peele, 
"  how  many  girls  have  been  in  love  with  him.  I  've 
known  girls  that  looked  like  marble  statues  —  the 
marble  statue  with  the  snub  nose ;  that 's  our  swagger 
New  York  type,  you  know,  —  well,  I  Ve  seen  them 
make  perfect  idiots  of  themselves  about  him.  But  so 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    169 

far  he  's  rather  preferred  the  ladies  that  don't  visit  at 
Peele  Manor.  I  Ve  brought  some  cigarettes.  Can  I 
smoke?" 

"  You  can  just  do  anything  you  like." 

"Thanks.  Well,  I  think  I'll  begin  by  lying  down 
on  this  soft  bed.  It 's  way  ahead  of  the  chairs  and  sofa 
in  the  parlour." 

She  exchanged  her  frock  for  zpeignoir,  and  extended 
herself  on  the  bed.  Patience  sat  beside  her  in  a  rock- 
ing chair,  her  troubles  forgotten. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Hal,  suddenly  removing  her 
cigarette,  "  what  was  the  shock  you  had  the  other  day  ? 
Tell  me." 

"  Well,  I  will,"  and  Patience  told  the  story  of  Rosita 
from  beginning  to  end.  Hal  listened  with  deep 
interest. 

"  That 's  a  stunner,"  she  said,  "  and  worth  coming  to 
Mariaville  for.  The  little  rip.  She  did  n't  tell  you  half. 
I  '11  bet  my  hopes  of  a  tiara  on  that.  But  she  does 
dance  and  sing  like  an  angel.  And  so  you  were  children 
together  ?  How  perfectly  funny !  Now  tell  me  your 
history,  every  bit  of  it." 

Patience  hesitated,  then  impulsively  told  the  story, 
omitting  few  particulars. 

Miss  Peele's  cigarette  was  allowed  to  go  out.  "  Well, 
well,"  she  said,  when  Patience  had  finished.  "  Fate 
did  play  the  devil  with  you,  did  n't  she  ?  I  'm  so  glad 
you  Ve  told  me.  I  '11  tell  the  family  what  I  like,  and 
you  keep  quiet.  I  have  the  inestimable  gift  of  selection. 
You  poor  child  !  I  'm  so  glad  you  fell  in  with  Cousin 
Harriet ;  and  now  you  are  going  to  be  happy  for  the 
rest  of  your  life.  Oh,  it 's  so  good  to  be  here  in  this 
quiet  place.  I  'm  so  tired  of  everybody.  Sometimes 


170    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

I  get  a  fearful  disgust.  The  same  old  grind,  year  after 
year.  If  I  could  only  fall  in  love ;  but  when  I  do  I 
know  it  '11  be  with  a  poor  man.  I  never  did  have  any 
luck." 

"  Would  n't  you  marry  him?  " 

Hal  shook  her  wise  young  head.  "I  don't  know. 
You  never  can  tell  what  you  '11  do  when  you  get  that 
disease ;  but  I  do  know  that  I  'd  be  miserable  if  I  did. 
Money,  and  plenty  of  it,  is  necessary  to  my  happiness. 
You  see  we  're  not  so  horribly  rich.  Papa  gives  mamma 
and  May  and  me  two  thousand  dollars  each  a  year,  and 
his  income  comes  mostly  from  his  practice.  We  have  n't 
anything  else  but  a  little  house  in  town,  and  Peele  Manor 
—  which  of  course  we  '11  never  sell  —  and  a  big  farm  ad- 
joining. Bev  runs  that,  and  has  the  income  from  it — 
about  three  thousand  dollars  a  year.  When  he  wants 
more  mamma  gets  it  for  him,  and  when  he  's  married  of 
course  he  '11  have  a  lot  more.  Two  thousand  stands  me 
in  very  well  now,  but  as  a  married  woman  I  want  nothing 
under  thirty  thousand  a  year  —  and  that's  a  modest 
ambition  enough.  You  can't  be  anybody  in  New  York 
on  less.  Oh,  dear  —  life  is  a  burden." 

"Your  woes  are  not  very  terrible,"  said  Patience, 
drily. 

"  Oh,  you  'd  think  so  if  you  were  me.  We  suffer 
according  to  our  capacities  and  point  of  view.  What 
is  comedy  to  one  is  tragedy  to  another.  If  I  had  to 
wear  the  same  clothes  for  two  seasons  I  'd  be  as  miser- 
able as  a  defeated  candidate  for  the  Presidency.  Beer 
makes  one  man  drunk  and  champagne  another.  Bev, 
by  the  way,  never  drinks.  He  's  rather  straight  than 
otherwise.  What 's  your  ideal  of  a  man,  by  the  way  ? 
Of  course  you  have  an  ideal." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    171 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Patience,  vaguely.  "  A 
man  with  a  big  brain  and  a  big  heart  and  a  big 
arm." 

Miss  Peele  laughed  heartily.  "  You  are  not  exacting 
in  your  combinations,  not  in  the  least." 

The  week  passed  delightfully  to  Patience,  although 
Hal  became  rather  restless  toward  the  end.  She 
arranged  Patience's  hair  in  six  different  fashions, 
then  decided  that  the  large  soft  coil  suited  her  best. 
Patience's  nails  were  manicured,  she  was  taught  how 
to  smoke  cigarettes,  and  select  extracts  from  French 
novels  were  read  to  her.  Hal  was  an  accomplished 
gossip,  and  regaled  her  hostess  with  all  the  whispered 
scandals  of  New  York  society.  She  was  a  liberal 
education. 

Beverly  did  not  call,  nor  did  he  write,  and  Hal 
anathematised  him  freely. 

"  But  I  have  my  ideas  on  the  subject,"  she  said 
darkly.  "  Just  you  wait." 


XIX 

Otf  the  evening  of  Hal's  departure,  as  Patience  was 
braiding  her  hair  for  the  night,  there  was  a  sharp  ring 
at  the  bell,  and  a  few  moments  later  Ellen  came  up- 
stairs with  a  card  inscribed  "Mr.  Beverly  Peele." 
Patience  felt  disposed  to  send  word  that  she  had  re- 
tired, so  thoroughly  had  she  lost  interest  in  the  young 
man;  but  reflecting  that  he  had  probably  ridden 
ten  miles  on  a  cold  night  to  see  her,  told  Ellen  to  light 
all  the  burners  in  the  parlour,  and  twisted  up  her  hair. 


172  Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

As  she  went  downstairs  she  saw  a  heavy  overcoat  on 
the  hall  table. 

"  If  it  had  occurred  to  me  that  he  had  come  by 
train,"  she  thought,  "  I  'd  have  let  him  go  home 
again." 

He  came  forward  with  his  charming  smile,  looking 
remarkably  handsome  in  his  evening  clothes. 

"  It  was  kind  of  you  to  come,"  she  said,  too  unso- 
phisticated to  feel  embarrassed  at  receiving  a  man  at 
night  in  a  house  where  she  lived  alone  with  a  servant. 
"  Of  course  you  knew  how  lonely  I  must  be." 

"  Hal  is  good  company,  is  n't  she  ?  "  he  asked,  hold- 
ing her  hand  and  staring  hard  at  her.  "  But  I  should 
think  she  'd  miss  you  more  than  you  'd  miss  her." 

Patience  withdrew  her  hand  abruptly.  Her  face 
wore  its  accustomed  cold  gravity,  contradicted  by  the 
eager  eyes  of  youth.  "  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  I  hope 
Hal  has  missed  me,  but  she  has  hardly  had  time  to  tell 
you  so." 

"  Has  n't  she  ?  She  has  had  several  hours,  and  I 
suppose  you  know  by  this  time  how  fast  she  can  talk. 
She  's  awfully  bright,  don't  you  think  so?  " 

"  Indeed  she  is." 

"  She  is  n't  a  beauty  like  May,  nor  intellectual  like 
Honora,  but  you  can't  have  everything  —  that  is, 
everybody  can't." 

"  Does  any  one  ?  "  asked  Patience,  indifferently. 

"  Hal  says  you  are  the  cleverest  woman  she  has  ever 
met,  —  and —  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  Hal  is  carried  away  by  the  enthusiasms 
of  the  moment,"  said  Patience,  as  he  paused.  She  was 
highly  gratified,  nevertheless. 

"  —  you  are  the  prettiest  woman  I  ever  saw,"  he 
continued,  as  if  she  had  not  spoken. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    173 

"  Oh,  nonsense  ! "  exclaimed  Patience,  angrily,  but 
the  colour  flew  to  her  face. 

"  I  mean  it,"  and  indisputably  his  eyes  spoke  admir- 
ation. "  I  Ve  thought  of  no  one  else  since  I  was  here. 
I  have  n't  come  before,  because  there  's  nothing  in  call- 
ing on  your  sister,  and  that 's  what  it  would  have 
amounted  to.  But,  you  see,  I  'm  here  the  very  night 
she  left." 

"  You  are  very  flattering."  Patience  was  beginning 
to  feel  vaguely  uncomfortable.  She  realised  that  the 
lore  gathered  from  novels  was  valueless  in  a  practical 
emergency,  and  longed  for  the  experience  of  Hal.  "  I 
understand  that  you  are  considered  fascinating,  and 
I  suppose  most  women  do  like  to  be  flattered." 

"  I  never  paid  a  woman  a  compliment  before  in  my 
life,"  he  said,  unblushingly.  "  You  don't  look  a  bit  like 
any  woman  I  ever  saw.  Hal  says  you  look  like  a 
'  white  star  on  a  dark  night,'  and  that 's  about  the  size 
of  it.  You  have  such  lovely  hair  and  skin.  I've 
always  rather  admired  plump  women,  but  your  slender- 
ness  suits  you  —  " 

"  Oh,  please  talk  about  something  else  !  I  am  not 
used  to  such  stuff,  and  I  don't  like  it.  Suppose  you 
talk  about  yourself."  (She  had  read  that  man  could  ever 
be  beguiled  by  this  bait.)  "  Are  you  as  fond  of  travel 
as  Hal  is?" 

"  I  never  travel,"  he  said  shortly.  "  When  I  find 
a  comfortable  place  I  stay  in  it.  Westchester  County 
suits  me  down  to  the  ground." 

"You  mean  to  say  that  you  can  travel  and  don't? 
that  you  don't  care  at  all  to  see  the  beautiful  things  in 
Europe  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  mother  always  brings  home  a  lot  of  pho- 


174    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

tographs  and  things,  and  that's  all  I  want  of  it.  I 
never  could  understand  why  Americans  are  so  restless. 
I  'm  sick  of  the  very  sound  of  Europe,  anyway." 

"  Are  you  fond  of  New  York?  " 

"  New  York  is  the  centre  of  the  earth,  and  full  of 
pretty  —  interesting  things,  dontcherknow  ?  I  've  had 
some  gay  times  there,  I  can  tell  you.  But  I  Ve 
settled  down  now,  and  prefer  Westchester  County  to 
any  place  on  earth.  I'd  rather  be  behind  or  on 
a  horse  than  anything  else." 

"Don't  you  care  for  society?  " 

"  I  hate  it.  One  winter  was  enough  for  me.  Wild 
horses  would  n't  drag  me  into  a  ball-room  again.  Of 
course  when  the  house  is  full  of  company  in  summer 
I  like  that  well  enough.  I  play  billiards  with  the  men 
and  spoon  —  flirt  with  the  girls  and  the  pretty  married 
women ;  but  I  'm  just  as  contented  when  they  've  all 
cleared  out." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  stay  in  the  country 
by  yourself  all  winter?  What  do  you  do?  Read?  " 

"  N-o— o— o.  I  don't  care  much  about  books.  We 
have  a  big  farm  and  I  run  it,  and  I  skate  and  drive 
and  ride  and  smoke  —  Oh,  there 's  plenty  to  do. 
Occasionally  I  go  to  town  and  have  a  little  fun." 

"What  do  you  call  fun  if  you  don't  like  society, 
—  the  theatre?" 

"  The  theatre ! "  he  laughed.  "  I  never  sat  out 
a  play  in  my  life.  Oh,  I  don't  know  you  well  enough 
to  tell  you  everything  yet.  Sometime,  I  '11  tell  you 
a  lot  of  funny  things." 

"  Perhaps  you  enjoy  the  newspapers  in  winter,"  said 
Patience,  hastily. 

"  Oh,  I  read  even  the  advertisements.     The  papers 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    175 

are  all  the  reading  any  man  wants.  There  are  two  or 
three  good  sensational  stories  every  day." 

"I  don't  read  those,"  said  Patience,  disgustedly. 
This  idol  appeared  to  be  clay  straight  up  to  his  hair. 
"I  like  to  read  the  big  news  and  Mr.  Field's  edi- 
torials." 

"  Oh,  you  need  educating.  I  read  those  too  —  not 
Field ;  he 's  too  much  for  me.  But  I  did  n't  come 
here  to  talk  about  newspapers —  " 

"Won't  you  smoke  a  cigar?" 

"  No,  thanks.  I  smoked  all  the  way  down,  and  in 
the  cab  too,  for  that  matter  —  " 

"Are  the  horses  standing  out  there  in  the  cold? 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  tell  him  to  take  them  to  the 
barn?" 

"  I  suppose  he  can  look  after  his  own  horses. 
They  're  nothing  but  old  hacks,  anyhow."  He  leaned 
forward  abruptly  and  took  her  hand,  pressing  it  closely. 
"  Oh  !  "  he  said.  "  I  've  been  wild  to  see  you  again." 

Patience  attempted  to  jerk  her  hand  away,  acutely 
conscious  of  a  desire  to  return  his  clasp.  She  did  the 
worst  thing  possible,  but  the  only  thing  that  could  be 
expected  :  she  lost  her  head.  "  I  don't  like  you  to  do 
that,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Let  me  go !  What  do  you 
mean,  anyhow?  " 

"  That  you  are  the  loveliest  woman  I  ever  saw.  I 
have  been  wild  about  you — "  He  had  taken  her 
other  hand,  and  his  face  was  close  to  hers.  He  had 
lowered  his  lids  slightly. 

"  And  you  think  that  because  I  am  alone  here  you 
can  say  what  you  like?  "  she  cried  passionately.  "  You 
would  not  dare  act  like  this  with  one  of  your  mother's 
guests ! " 


176    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Oh,  would  n't  I  ?  "  He  laughed  disagreeably.  "  But 
what  is  the  use  of  being  a  goose  —  " 

Patience  sprang  to  her  feet,  overturning  her  chair: 
but  she  only  succeeded  in  pulling  him  to  his  feet  also ; 
he  would  not  release  her  hands. 

"  I  wish  you  would  leave  the  house,"  she  said,  stamp- 
ing her  foot.  "  If  you  don't  let  me  go,  I  '11  call  Ellen." 

"  Oh,  don't  make  a  goose  of  yourself.  And  I  'm  not 
afraid  of  a  servant.  I  'm  not  going  to  murder  you  — 
nor  anything  else.  Only,  —  do  you  drive  all  men  wild 
like  this?" 

'•  I  don't  know  anything  about  men,"  almost  sobbed 
Patience,  "  and  I  don't  want  to.  Will  you  go?  " 

"  No,  I  won't."  He  released  her  hands  suddenly ; 
and,  as  she  made  a  spring  for  the  door,  flung  his  arms 
about  her.  She  ducked  her  head  and  fought  him,  but 
he  kissed  her  cheeks  and  brow  and  hair.  His  lips 
burnt  her  delicate  skin,  his  powerful  embrace  seemed 
absorbing  her.  She  was  filled  with  fury  and  loathing, 
but  the  blood  pounded  in  her  ears,  and  the  very  air 
seemed  humming.  The  man's  magnetism  was  purely 
animal,  but  it  was  a  tremendous  force. 

"  You  are  a  brute,  a  beast !"  she  sobbed.  "  Let  me 
go  !  Let  me  go  !  " 

"  I  won't,"  he  muttered.  He  too  had  lost  his  head. 
"  I  '11  not  leave  you."  He  strove  to  reach  her  mouth. 
She  managed  to  disengage  her  right  arm,  and  clinching 
her  hand  hit  him  a  smart  blow  in  the  face.  He  laughed, 
and  caught  her  hand,  holding  it  out  at  arm's  length. 

"  Ellen  !  "  she  cried.  As  she  lifted  her  head  to  call 
he  was  quick  to  see  his  advantage.  His  mouth  closed 
suddenly  on  hers. 

The  room  swam  round  her.     She  ceased  to  struggle. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    177 

Her  feet  had  touched  that  nether  world  where  the 
electrical  forces  of  the  universe  appear  to  be  generated, 
and  its  wonder  —  not  the  man  —  conquered  her.  She 
shook  horribly.  She  felt  a  tumultuous  impulse  to  spring 
upon  her  ideals  and  beat  them  in  the  face. 

Heavy  footfalls  sounded  in  the  kitchen  hall. 

"  There  is  Ellen  ! "  she  gasped,  wrenching  herself 
free.  The  man  stamped  his  foot.  He  looked  hideous. 

" Go  !  "  said  Patience.  "Go,  just  as  fast  as  you  can, 
and  don't  you  «ver  come  here  again.  If  you  do,  it 
won't  do  you  any  good,  for  you  '11  not  see  me." 

And  she  ran  upstairs  and  locked  her  door  loudly. 


XX 


FOR  some  time  she  walked  rapidly  up  and  down,  press- 
ing her  hands  to  her  hot  face.  Chaos  was  in  her.  She 
could  not  think.  She  only  felt  that  she  wanted  to  die, 
and  preferred  the  river.  She  poured  water  into  a 
basin  and  plunged  her  face  into  it  again  and  again. 
The  water  had  the  chill  of  midwinter,  and  sent  the 
blood  from  her  brain ;  but  she  felt  no  cleaner.  Still, 
her  brain  was  no  longer  racing  like  a  screw  out  of  water, 
and  she  sat  down  to  think.  It  was  her  trend  of  mind 
to  face  all  questions  with  the  least  possible  delay,  and 
she  looked  at  herself  squarely. 

"  So,"  she  thought,  "  I  am  the  daughter  of  Madge 
Sparhawk,  after  all.  The  horror  of  that  night  left  me 
as  I  was  made.  Three  years  with  the  best  woman  the 
sun  ever  shone  on  only  put  the  real  me  to  sleep  for  a 
time.  All  my  ideals  were  the  vagaries  of  my  imagina- 

12 


178    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

tion,  a  sort  of  unwritten  book,  of  the  nature  of  those 
that  geniuses  write,  who  spend  their  leisure  hours  in 
debauchery.  I  am  no  better  than  Rosita.  I  have  not 
even  the  excuse  of  love  —  if  I  had  —  if  it  had  been 
Him  —  I  might  perhaps  —  perhaps — look  upon  passion 
as  a  natural  thing.  Certainly  it  is  not  disagreeable,"  and 
she  laughed  unpleasantly.  "  But  I  despised  this  man. 
He  has  not  the  brain  of  a  calf  nor  the  principle  of  a 
savage,  and  yet  it  is  he  that  made  me  forget  every  ideal 
I  ever  cherished.  If  I  met  Him  now,  I  would  not 
insult  him  with  the  gift  of  myself.  .  .  . 

"  If  Beverly  Peele  came  in  here  now  I  verily  believe 
that  I  should  kiss  him  again.  What  —  what  is  human 
nature  made  of?  I  have  the  blood  of  refined  and  en- 
lightened ancestors  in  my  veins  —  I  know  that.  I  have 
seen  nothing  of  sexual  sin  that  did  not  make  me  abhor 
it.  Barring  my  mother,  I  had  the  best  of  influences  in 
Monterey,  and  I  knew  the  difference.  I  have  —  or  had 
—  a  natural  tendency  toward  all  that  was  refined  and 
uplifting.  I  was  even  sure  I  had  a  soul.  My  brain  is 
better,  and  better  furnished,  than  that  of  the  average 
woman  of  my  age.  And  yet,  at  the  first  touch,  I 
crumble  like  an  old  corpse  exposed  to  air.  I  am  sim- 
ply a  body  with  a  mental  annex;  and  the  one  appears 
to  be  independent  of  the  other. 

"  Is  the  world  all  vile  ? "  she  continued,  resuming 
her  restless  walk.  "This  man  attacked  me  as  if  he 
had  no  anticipation  of  a  rebuff.  And  yet  I  am  the 
friend  of  his  sister,  the  adopted  daughter  of  his 
mother's  cousin,  and,  he  has  every  reason  to  think, 
of  irreproachable  life.  If  the  world  —  his  mother's 
world  —  were  not  full  of  such  women  as  he  imagined 
me  to  be  —  he  would  never  have  taken  so  much  for 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    179 

granted.  He  acted  as  if  he  thought  me  a  fool,  and  I 
appear  to  be  remarkably  green.  I  am  certainly  learn- 
ing. Oh  —  the  brute  !  the  brute  !  "  And  she  flung 
herself  on  the  bed  and  burst  into  violent  weeping,  which 
lasted  until  she  was  so  exhausted  that  she  fell  asleep 
without  disrobing. 


XXI 

THE  next  morning  her  head  ached  violently.  She 
started  for  the  woods,  but  turned  back.  They  held  her 
lost  ideals.  She  sat  all  day  by  the  window,  looking 
at  the  Hudson,  listless,  and  mentally  nauseated. 

During  the  afternoon  a  special  messenger  brought  a 
note  of  abject  apology  from  Beverly  Peele.  She  burnt 
it  half  read  and  told  the  man  there  was  no  answer. 
There  is  only  one  thing  a  woman  scorns  more  than  a 
man's  insult,  and  that  is  his  apology. 

The  next  day  he  called,  but  was  refused  admission 
by  the  sturdy  Ellen.  Patience  spent  the  day  on  Hog 
Heights.  On  the  following  day  he  called  again,  with 
the  same  result.  The  next  day  Hal  came. 

"What  is  the  row  between  you  and  Bev?"  she 
exclaimed,  before  she  had  seated  herself.  "  He  says 
you  Ve  taken  a  dislike  to  him,  and  is  in  the  most 
beastly  temper  about  it.  I  never  saw  him  so  cut  up. 
He  's  sent  me  here  to  patch  it  up  and  give  you  this 
letter.  Do  tell  me  what  is  the  matter?  " 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Patience,  grimly.  "The 
idea  of  his  sending  his  sister  to  patch  it  up  !  "  And  she 
gave  an  account  of  Mr.  Peele's  performance,  woman- 
like omitting  her  own  momentary  forbearance. 


180    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Hal  listened  with  an  amused  smile.  "  So  Bev  made 
a  bad  break,"  she  remarked  when  Patience  had  con- 
cluded. "  I  'm  not  surprised,  for  he  's  pretty  hot- 
headed, and  head  over  ears  in  love.  You  mustn't 
take  life  so  tragically.  I  've  had  several  weird  experi- 
ences myself,  although  I  'm  not  the  kind  that  men  lose 
their  head  about  as  a  rule ;  only  given  the  hour  and 
the  occasion,  some  men  will  lose  their  head  about  any 
woman.  Perhaps  I  should  have  said  New  York  men. 
They  are  a  rare  and  lovely  species.  They  admire  God 
because  he  made  himself  of  their  gender  and  knew 
what  he  was  about  when  he  invented  woman.  I  was 
out  on  a  sleighing  party  one  moonlight  night  last  winter, 
and  on  the  back  seat  with  a  man  I  'd  never  seen  out  of 
a  ball-room  before.  The  way  that  man's  legs  and 
arms  flew  round  that  sleigh  made  my  hair  curl.  You 
see,  a  lot  of  us  are  fast,  but  then  plenty  of  us  are  not. 
The  trouble  is  that  the  men  can't  discriminate,  as  we 
look  pretty  much  alike  on  the  outside.  They  're  not  a 
very  clever  lot  —  our  society  men  — and  they  don't 
learn  much  until  they  Ve  been  taught.  Then  when 
they  are  forced  to  believe  in  your  virtue  they  feel 
rather  sorry  for  you,  and  later  on  are  apt  to  propose  — 
if  you  have  any  money.  Bev  would  propose  to  you  if 
you  were  living  in  a  tent  and  clad  in  a  gunny  sack. 
He  would  have  preferred  things  the  other  way  —  it 's 
so  much  less  trouble  —  but  as  he  can't,  he  won't  stop  at 
any  such  trifling  nuisance  as  matrimony.  Oh,  men  are 
a  lovely  lot !  Still,  the  world  would  be  a  pretty  stupid 
place  without  them.  You  '11  learn  to  manage  them  in 
time,  and  then  they  '11  only  amuse  you.  They  are  not 
really  so  bad  at  heart  —  they've  been  badly  educated. 
I  know  four  married  women  of  the  type  we  call '  friskies,' 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    181 

whom  my  mother  would  shudder  at  the  thought  of 
excluding  from  her  visiting  list,  and  whom  I  'd  bet  my 
new  Paquin  trunk,  several  men  I  know  have  had  affairs 
with.  So  what  can  you  expect  of  a  man?  " 

"Is  the  world  rotten?"  asked  Patience,  in  disgust. 

"•It's  just  about  half  and  half.  I  know  as  many 
good  women  as  bad.  Half  the  women  in  society  are 
good  wives  and  devoted  mothers.  The  other  half, 
girls  and  married  women,  old  and  young,  are  no  better 
than  your  Rosita.  Sometimes  their  motives  are  no 
higher.  Usually,  though,  it 's  craving  for  excitement. 
I  don't  blame  those  much  myself.  The  most  fascinat- 
ing woman  I  know  is  larky.  She  as  much  as  told  me  so. 
Some  of  the  confessions  I  've  had  from  married  women 
would  make  you  gasp.  Well  —  let 's  quit  the  subject. 
Promise  me  you  '11  forgive  Bev." 

"I  shall  not.  I  hate  him.  I  shall  never  look  at 
him  again  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear,  you  are  young  !  And  I  do  so  want 
you  for  a  sister.  May  is  such  a  fool,  and  I  do  hate 
Honora." 

"  You  would  n't  have  me  loathe  myself  for  the  sake 
of  being  your  sister,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  would  n't  have  you  marry  Bev  if  you 
couldn't  like  him;  but  I  believe  you  really  do,  only 
things  have  n't  turned  out  as  you  planned  in  that  inno- 
cent little  skull  of  yours.  Bev  is  a  good  fellow,  as  men 
go.  You  '11  get  used  to  him  and  his  kind  in  the  course 
of  time,  and  then  you  '11  enjoy  life  in  a  calm  practical 
way." 

"  Is  there  no  other  way?  "  asked  Patience,  bitterly. 

"  Not  in  my  experience.  And  if  you  stay  here  in 
your  woods  you  '11  get  tired  of  your  ideals  after  a  while. 


1 82    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

You  can't  live  on  ideals  —  the  human  constitution  is  n't 
made  that  way.  If  it  was  there  'd  be  no  such  thing  as 
society.  We  'd  live  in  caves  and  bay  the  moon.  So 
you  'd  better  come  into  the  world,  Patience  dear,  and 
accept  it  as  it  is,  and  drain  it  for  all  it 's  worth." 

"  Oh,  hush  !     You  are  too  good  to  talk  like  that." 

"Good?  —  what  is  good?  I  am  the  result  of  my 
surroundings  —  a  little  better  than  some,  a  little  worse 
than  others.  So  was  Cousin  Harriet.  So  is  La  Rosita. 
I  'm  not  cynical.  I  merely  see  life  —  my  section  of 
it  —  exactly  as  it  is.  If  you  become  a  newspaper 
woman  you  '11  probably  receive  a  succession  of  shocks. 
As  nearly  as  I  can  make  out  they  're  about  like  us  — 
half  and  half.  I  became  quite  chummy  with  a  news- 
paper woman,  once,  crossing  the  Atlantic.  She  was 
awfully  pretty,  and,  as  nearly  as  one  woman  can  judge 
of  another,  perfectly  proper.  She  related  some  wild 
and  weird  experiences  she  had  had  with  men.  Yours 
would  probably  be  wilder  and  weirder,  as  you  appear 
to  be  possessed  of  an  unholy  fascination ;  and  in  a  year 
or  two  you  '11  be  a  beauty.  All  you  want  is  a  little  more 
figure  and  style: — or  rather  clothes." 

"  Well,  if  I  'm  to  have  wild  and  weird  experiences  I 
prefer  to  have  them  with  men  of  brains,  not  with  a  lot 
of  empty-headed  society  men." 

"  Don't  generalise  too  freely,  my  dear.  There  are 
newspaper  men  and  newspaper  men,  —  according  to 
this  girl  I  Ve  just  told  you  of.  Some  are  brainy,  some 
are  merely  bright;  some  are  gentlemen,  most  are 
common  beyond  words.  And,  as  she  said  —  after 
you  've  worked  with  man  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  you  don't 
have  many  illusions  about  the  animal  left." 

"  I  have  not  one,  and  I  lost  them  in  an  hour.     Your 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    183 

brother  is  supposed  to  be  a  gentleman  with  a  long 
array  of  ancestors,  and  he  acted  like  a  wild  Indian." 

"My  dear,  he  merely  lost  his  head.  That  was  a 
compliment  to  you,  and  you  should  not  be  too  hard  on 
a  man  in  those  circumstances.  He  won't  do  it  again, 
I  'm  sure  of  that.  He  has  some  control.  I  warned 
him  before  he  came  not  to  pun,  and  he  says  he  did  n't, 
not  once.  Now,  tell  me  one  thing — Don't  you  like 
him  just  a  little?" 

"No,"  said  Patience;  but  she  flushed  to  her  hair, 
and  Hal,  with  her  uncanny  wisdom,  said  no  more. 


XXII 

THE  next  day  Patience  went  to  the  woods  for  the 
first  time  since  Beverly  Peele's  onslaught.  A  natural 
reaction  had  lifted  her  spirits  out  of  the  slough,  and  she 
turned  to  nature,  as  ever.  She  could  never  be  the  same 
again,  she  thought  with  a  sigh;  and  once  more  she 
must  readjust  herself.  She  wondered  if  any  girl  had 
ever  done  so  much  readjusting  in  an  equal  number  of 
years. 

The  woods  were  no  longer  a  scene  of  enchantment. 
The  ice  had  melted.  The  trees  were  grey  and  naked 
again.  The  ground  was  slush,  and  nasty  to  walk  upon. 

"But  the  spring  must  come  in  time,"  she  thought; 
"and  then  perhaps  I'll  feel  new  too  —  but  not  the 
same,  for  like  the  spring  I  shall  have  other  seasons 
behind  me. 

"  But  —  perhaps  —  who  knows  ?  —  I  may  be  the  bet- 
ter for  knowing  myself.  I  was  in  a  fool's  paradise 


184    Patience  Spar  hawk  and  Her  Times 

before.  Perhaps  I  was  in.  danger  of  becoming  an 
egoist,  and  imagining  myself  made  of  finer  fibre  than 
other  women.  Great  writers  show  that  the  same  brute 
is  in  all  of  us,  and  I  can  believe  it.  Some  work  it  off 
in  religion,  but  the  majority  don't.  There  seems  to  be 
some  tremendous  magnetic  force  in  the  Universe  that 
makes  the  human  race  nine-tenths  Love  —  for  want  of 
a  better  name.  Circumstances  and  ancestors  deter- 
mine the  direction  of  it.  It  seems  too  bad  that  Civili- 
sation has  not  done  more  for  us  than  to  give  us  the 
analytical  mind  which  understands  and  rebels,  and  no 
more,  at  the  inheritance  of  the  savage.  But  now  that 
I  know  myself,  perhaps  I  can  go  forward  more  surely 
on  the  path  to  the  higher  altitudes  of  life.  I  should 
like  to  be  as  good  as  auntie,  and  worldly-wise  beside. 

"  I  suppose  my  horrid  experience  with  this  man  will 
make  me  more  exacting  with  all  men.  I  think  I  could 
not  blunder  into  matrimony,  as  some  women  do.  I  feel 
as  if  I  never  wanted  to  see  another  man,  but  that 
impression  will  pass — all  impressions  appear  to  pass. 
I  may  even  want  to  meet  Him  after  a  time,  and  perhaps 
he  will  forgive.  Should  n't  be  surprised  if  he  'd  want 
a  good  deal  of  forgiveness  himself.  Meanwhile  I  can 
work,  and  learn  all  I  can  of  what  life  means,  anyway. 
I  '11  go  to  Mr.  Field  —  " 

The  soft  ground  echoed  no  footfalls,  but  Patience 
suddenly  became  aware  that  some  one  was  approach- 
ing her.  She  turned,  and  saw  Beverly  Peele. 


BOOK    III 


BOOK    III 


"  I  DO  hope  you  '11  make  a  hit,  Patience,"  said  Hal, 
regarding  her  critically.  "  The  public,  even  the  little 
public  of  a  garden  party,  is  a  thing  you  can't  bet  on, 
but  you  certainly  are  stunning.  If  ever  papa  loses  his 
fortune,  in  the  curious  American  way,  I  shall  follow  the 
ever  seductive  example  of  the  English  aristocracy  and 
go  in  for  dressmaking.  That  frock  is  a  triumph  of  art, 
if  I  do  say  it  myself." 

Patience  revolved  slowly  before  the  Psyche  mirror 
which  stood  between  two  open  windows  in  one  corner 
of  Hal's  pretty  terra-cotta  bedroom.  She  too  was- 
pleased  with  the  airy  concoction  of  violet  and  white. 
On  a  chair  lay  a  picture  hat,  another  bird  of  the  same 
feather.  Hal  placed  it  on  Patience's  head,  a  little 
back,  and  the  violet  velvet  of  the  interior  made  a  very 
effective  frame  for  the  soft  ashen  hair  and  white  skin. 

"  You  certainly  carry  yourself  well,"  continued  Hal, 
"  and  before  long  you  will  acquire  an  air.  Always 
keep  in  mind  that  that  is  the  most  important  thing  in 
life  —  our  life  —  to  acquire.  But  you  look  like  a  lily, 
a  purple  and  white  forest  lily." 

"  I  have  n't  the  faintest  idea  what  to  talk  to  fashion- 
able people  about." 


1 88    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Don't  be  too  clever  —  don't  frighten  the  men  and 
antagonise  the  women.  You  see,  you  're  not  known  at 
all,  so  people  won't  begin  by  being  afraid  of  you  —  as 
they  would  if  they  knew  all  that  went  on  in  that  pretty 
skull  of  yours.  Just  be  Mrs.  Beverly  Peele.  Nobody 
would  ever  suspect  Bev  of  marrying  a  clever  woman. 
You  can't  do  the  artless  and  infantile,  like  May :  your 
face  is  too  strong;  but  you  can  be  unsophisticated, 
and  that  always  goes." 

"  I  'm  not  unsophisticated  !  " 

"  Oh,  don't  look  like  that.  All  the  light  seems  to 
go  out  of  your  skin.  I  mean  give  everybody  the  im- 
pression that  you  have  everything  to  learn,  and  that 
each,  individually,  can  teach  it  all.  It 's  awfully  fetch- 
ing. That  is  what  has  made  May's  success.  Of  course 
you  would  n't  be  another  May,  if  you  could ;  but  you 
want  to  begin  at  the  beginning  —  don't  you  know  ? 
You  must  let  society  feel  that  it  gives  you  everything,  tells 
you  everything.  Then  it  will  love  you.  But  if  it  sus- 
pects that  you  are  alien  —  the  least  little  bit  —  then  there 
.will  be  the  devil  to  pay.  Of  course  a  few  of  the  best 
sort  would  like  you,  but  I  'm  set  on  your  making  a  hit." 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  '11  never  take,"  said  Patience,  with  a 
sigh,  "  but  I  am  wild  to  see  Vanity  Fair,  all  the  same. 
It  must  be  great  fun  —  all  that  brilliancy  and  life. 
But  somehow  I  don't  feel  in  tune  with  the  people  I 
have  met,  so  far." 

"  Oh,  that 's  natural.  You  are  not  acclimatised  yet, 
so  to  speak.  Society  is  a  distinctly  foreign  country  to 
those  that  have  not  been  brought  up  in  it.  Just  sit 
down  on  the  edge  of  that  chair  and  rest  while  I  take  a 
look  at  myself." 

"  White  is  certainly  my  day  colour,"  she  continued, 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    189 

revolving  in  her  turn  before  the  mirror.  "  It  is  won- 
derful how  it  clears  the  skin,  especially  with  a  touch  of 
blue  near  the  face.  Pink  would  make  me  as  yellow  as 
October,  and  green  would  suggest  thirty-five.  Your 
grey  matter  will  be  spared  the  wear  and  tear  of  The 
Study  of  Colour,  but  if  I  had  n't  reduced  it  to  a  fine 
art,  I  'd  have  had  to  turn  literary  or  something  when 
May  came  out." 

"  You  look  just  like  a  fairy  !  I  never  saw  anything 
so  dainty." 

"  Oh,  of  course  ;  I  'm  so  little  and  light  that  I  have  to 
work  the  fairy  racket  for  all  it 's  worth.  It 's  a  heavenly 
day,  is  n't  it  ?  The  country 's  got  its  best  spring  clothes 
on,  sure  enough." 

The  girls  leaned  out  of  each  of  the  windows  in  turn, 
scrutinising  the  grounds.  In  front  and  on  both  sides 
of  the  house  the  land  rolled  away  in  great  irregular 
waves.  Woods  were  in  the  sudden  hollows,  on  the 
lofty  knolls ;  between,  shelving  expanses  of  green,  bare 
but  for  an  occasional  oak  or  elm.  Beside  the  drive- 
way was  a  long  narrow  avenue  of  elms,  down  which  two 
might  pace  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  no  more.  In  a 
deep  hollow  on  the  right  was  the  orchard,  a  riot  of 
pink  and  white.  The  immediate  grounds  were  small 
and  trim,  and  fragrant  with  the  flowers  of  civilisation ; 
out  on  the  hills  beyond  the  wild-flowers  and  tall  grass, 
the  locust  and  hawthorn,  had  their  way.  Behind  all 
flowed  the  Hudson  under  the  green  Palisades,  its  sur- 
face gay  with  sail  and  steamboat. 

A  dancing  booth  had  been  erected  on  one  of  the 
lawns,  and  the  musicians  were  already  assembling  under 
the  silken  curtains. 

"It  looks  very  well,"  said  Hal,  "and  you  couldn't 


190    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

have  a  more  perfect  day  for  your  dtbut.  Not  that  I 
care  much  for  garden  parties ;  the  fresh  air  makes  me 
sleepy,  and  there  's  no  concentration,  as  it  were  —  as 
there  is  in  a  ball-room,  don't  you  know?  But  mamma 
decreed  that  the  world  should  make  your  acquaintance 
out  of  doors,  and  that  is  the  end  of  it.  I  wonder  if  you  '11 
manage  to  induce  Bev  to  go  to  town  for  the  winter." 

"  I  hope  so  !  It  will  be  horribly  dull  to  stay  here  all 
winter,  with  all  of  you  away." 

"  That 's  an  edifying  sentiment  for  a  bride  of  three 
months.  However,  I  agree  with  you.  I  'd  go  mad 
shut  up  in  a  country  house  in  winter  with  the  most 
fascinating  man  that  ever  breathed.  And  the  dickens 
of  it  is,  mamma  always  takes  his  part,  whether  he  's 
wrong  or  right.  She  Ml  preach  wifely  duty  to  you  until 
you  'd  live  on  a  desert  island  to  get  rid  of  her." 

"  I  Ve  heard  her,"  said  Patience,  gloomily. 

"  I  wondered  if  that  was  what  she  was  at  in  the 
library  yesterday.  When  mamma  has  her  chin  well  up 
and  her  lower  lip  well  out  I  can  tell  at  long  range  that 
she  's  embracing  the  cause  of  virtue.  But  she  tackled 
you  rather  early  in  the  game,  considering  you  have  n't 
made  any  notable  break  as  yet." 

"  I  would  n't  go  driving  with  Beverly  yesterday,  — 
the  sun  makes  my  head  ache,  —  and  I  'd  also  begged 
him  to  take  me  to  the  theatre  to  see  Rosita,  and  he 
would  n't." 

"  Oh,  you  '11  never  get  Bev  to  the  theatre.  We  '11 
go  by  ourselves  to  a  matinee.  However,  it 's  better  than 
being  a  newspaper  woman  on  several  dollars  a  week  — 
come  now,  own  up  ?  n 

"  I  enjoyed  Florida  and  New  Orleans  and  Canada 
immensely." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    191 

"That  was  a  tremendous  concession  for  Bev  to 
make  —  he  detests  travelling.  He  certainly  is  in  love ; 
but  I  imagine  he  expects  you  to  live  on  that  same  con- 
cession for  some  time  to  come  —  thinks  it 's  your  turn 
to  do  the  self-sacrificing  act.  Such  is  man.  Anyhow, 
I  'm  glad  it 's  all  turned  out  so  comfortably,  and  that  you 
are  here,  and  that  all  is  settled  —  " 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  something.  I  could  n't  get  it 
out  of  Beverly.  Did  your  mother  make  a  very  violent 
objection  to  his  marrying  me  ?  Of  course  I  am  a  social 
nobody,  and  she  must  have  made  great  plans  for  her 
only  son.  She  did  n't  say  anything  when  she  came  to 
call ;  but,  you  see,  she  did  n't  call  until  three  days 
before  the  wedding,  and  Beverly's  and  your  excuses 
were  not  very  good." 

"  Oh,  of  course  she  raised  Cain,"  said  Miss  Peele, 
easily ;  "  that  was  to  be  expected.  But  papa  put  his 
foot  down  and  said  he  was  glad  to  have  Beverly  marry 
a  clever  woman  :  it  might  be  the  making  of  him.  And 
/just  fought !  Of  course  I  'd  told  papa  that  you  were 
as  high  bred  as  any  woman  in  America,  and  that  you  'd 
look  a  swell  in  less  than  no  time.  That  weighed  heavy 
with  him,  for,  in  his  opinion,  God  may  have  made  him- 
self first,  but  he  made  the  Peeles  next,  and  no  mistake. 
And  Bev  !  He  went  into  the  most  awful  tantrums  you 
ever  saw.  I  think  that  was  what  brought  mamma 
round  —  she  was  afraid  he  'd  burst  a  blood-vessel. 
When  she  wrote  and  asked  Miss  Beale  to  live  with  you 
I  knew  the  day  was  won.  And  now  that  you  are  Mrs. 
Beverly  Peele  she  '11  respect  you  accordingly,  although 
you  '11  have  some  lively  tussles.  But  make  her  think 
you  adore  Bev,  and  you  '11  pull  through.  Suppose  we 
go  down  now.  Tra-la-la  !  I  wish  it  were  over." 


192    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 


II 

THE  girls  descended  the  twisted  stair  into  the  wide 
hall.  All  the  doors  and  windows  were  open,  and  the 
soft  air  blew  through  the  great  house,  lifting  the  lace 
and  silken  curtains. 

A  girl,  looking  like  a  large  butterfly,  in  her  yellow 
frock,  was  fluttering  about  the  hall  amidst  the  palms 
and  the  huge  vases  of  flowers.  Her  skin  was  of  match- 
less tints,  her  large  blue  eyes  as  guileless  as  those  of  an 
infant. 

"  Oh  !  Oh  !  "  she  cried,  as  Hal  and  Patience  reached 
the  first  landing,  "  how  perfectly  sweet !  Hal,  is  my 
frock  all  right  in  the  back?  My  things  never  fit  quite 
as  well  as  yours  do.  Isn't  Patience  too  fetching  for 
words  ?  I  wish  I  was  just  white  like  that.  How  per- 
fectly funny  that  we  should  be  giving  a  garden  party  for 
Bev's  wife  !  Who  would  have  thought  it  last  year? 
Is  n't  it  odd  how  things  do  happen  ?  And  has  n't 
Honora  been  perfectly  lovely  about  it  ?  I  always  knew 
she  did  n't  care.  I  wonder  if  any  decent  men  will 
come  up  !  It 's  so  hard  —  Hal,  does  my  frock  wrinkle 
in  the  back?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  drawled  Hal,  without  looking  at  her. 
She  glanced  at  the  tall  clock  in  an  angle.  "  They  '11 
be  here  in  ten  minutes,  now —  Oh — h — h  !  " 

A  portiere  was  pushed  aside,  and  a  girl  entered  the 
hall  from  a  dark  background  of  books  and  heavy  cur- 
tains. She  was  far  above  the  ordinary  height  of  woman, 
and  extremely  slender.  Golden  hair  clustered  about  a 
long  face,  pale  rather  than  white.  The  large  azure  eyes 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    193 

had  the  extraordinary  clarity  of  childhood,  and  an 
expression  of  perfect  purity.  The  nose  was  long,  the 
mouth  thin,  but  well  curved  and  very  red.  She  wore  a 
clinging  gown  of  white  crepe  and  a  large  knot  of  blue 
wild-flowers  at  her  belt.  She  moved  slowly  forward, 
managing  her  long  limbs  with  much  dexterity,  but 
could  hardly  be  called  graceful.  Patience  thought  her 
the  most  beautiful  woman  she  had  ever  seen,  and  mur- 
mured her  admiration  to  Hal,  who  snorted  in  a  gentle, 
ladylike  way. 

"  They  will  be  here  in  a  moment,  I  suppose,"  said 
Honora,  wearily.  "  I  think  I  shall  not  go  out.  I  '11 
stay  in  the  drawing-room  and  entertain  the  older  people. 
Some  one  must  attend  to  them,  and  I  really  prefer  the 
house." 

"  You  are  always  so  amiable,"  said  Hal,  drily,  "  and 
you  certainly  won't  get  freckled." 

"  It  is  true  that  I  don't  like  freckles,"  said  Honora, 
calmly,  "  and  I  do  like  the  older  people.  Even  you, 
when  you  have  a  few  white  hairs,  may  become  more  or 
less  interesting.  Patience,  dear,  you  look  very  lovely. 
You  must  let  me  kiss  you."  She  bent  her  cool  lips  to 
the  brow  of  the  bride,  swaying  over  her.  Her  voice 
could  not  be  described  by  any  adjective  devoid  of  the 
letter  L.  It  was  liquid,  silvery,  cold,  light. 

"She  certainly  is  a  stunning-looking  woman,"  said 
Hal,  as  Honora  passed  into  the  drawing-room,  "  but 
she  's  a  whole  rattlesnake,  and  no  mistake.  I  Ve  never 
seen  her  strike  real  hard  yet;  she  merely  spits  occa- 
sionally, and  always  in  that  amiable  way.  You  can 
imagine  how  subtle  she  is,  and  what  a  dangerous  force 
such  self-control  is.  I  shall  never  understand  how  she 
failed  to  get  Bev." 

13 


194    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Perhaps,  as  May  suggests,  she  did  n't  want  him." 

"  Oh,  did  n't  she  !  Just  wait !  you  '11  hear  from  her 
yet.  There  's  the  whistle.  The  train  '11  be  here  in 
three  minutes.  Let  us  group  ourselves  gracefully  under 
Peele  the  First." 

They  went  into  the  large  white  drawing-room,  whose 
old-fashioned  woodwork  was  as  it  had  been  nearly  three 
hundred  years  ago,  even  to  the  heavy  shutters  over  the 
small-paned  windows.  The  ceiling  was  fretted  with 
floral  designs,  executed  in  papier  mache,  surrounding  a 
das  relief  oi  "  our  well  beloved  Whyte  Peele,"  who  had 
received  the  grant  of  these  many  acres  from  James  the 
First.  All  the  woodwork  was  painted  white,  and  carved. 
The  furniture,  modern,  but  of  colonial  design,  was  up- 
holstered in  pale  pink  and  blue. 

Beyond  a  side  hall  was  a  long  dining-room  panelled 
to  the  ceiling  in  oak,  and  hung  on  all  sides  with  dead 
and  living  Peeles.  The  carved  oaken  table  was  spread 
with  the  light  unsubstantial  feast  of  the  modern  time. 
Adjoining  the  dining-room  were  two  small  reception- 
rooms  looking  upon  the  terrace  at  the  back  of  the 
rambling  old  house.  In  the  middle  of  this  hall,  under 
the  carved  twisted  stair,  was  a  round  enclosure  whose 
door  opened  upon  a  well,  from  whence  a  secret  passage 
led  to  the  river. 

Mrs.  Peele  swept  across  the  hall  from  the  dining- 
room,  and  raising  her  lorgnette,  considered  Patience. 

"  You  look  very  well,"  she  said,  coldly.  "  Don't  get 
nervous,  please ;  it  is  the  one  thing  for  which  people 
have  no  toleration.  Where  is  Beverly?  " 

"  He  has  gone  for  a  drive.  You  know  he  does  not 
like  entertainments."  Patience's  nerves  were  muttering, 
and  her  mother-in-law's  admonition  was  not  of  the 
nature  of  balm. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    195 

Mrs.  Peele  raised  her  brows.  "  It  is  odd  that  a  bride 
should  have  so  little  influence  over  her  husband,"  she 
remarked  ;  and  Patience  was  now  in  that  equable  frame 
of  mind  which  carries  one  through  the  severe  ordeals 
of  life. 

How  she  did  live  through  that  ordeal  of  introduction 
to  some  five  hundred  people  she  never  knew.  For- 
tunately, all  but  the  neighbours  arrived  on  the  special 
train  which  had  been  sent  for  them,  and  there  was  little 
for  her  to  do  but  smile  and  bend  her  head  as  Mrs. 
Peele  named  her  new  daughter-in-law  to  her  guests. 

And  whatever  might  be  that  exalted  dame's  private 
opinion  of  her  son's  choice,  whatever  methods  she 
might  employ  in  untrammelled  domestic  hours  to  make 
her  disapproval  felt,  to  the  world  she  assumed  her  habit- 
ual air  of  being  supremely  content  with  all  that  pertained 
to  the  house  of  Peele.  Had  Patience  been  the  daughter 
of  a  belted  earl  she  could  not  have  been  presented  to 
New  York  with  a  haughtier  pride,  a  calmer  assumption 
that  New  York  must  embrace  with  gratitude  and  enthu- 
siasm this  opportunity  to  meet  the  daughter-in-law  of 
the  Gardiner  Peeles. 

Her  manner  gave  Patience  confidence  after  a  time. 
Her  own  pride  had  already  conquered  diffidence ;  and 
trying  as  the  long  ordeal  was,  she  thrilled  a  little  at  the 
sudden  realisation  of  half-formed  ambitions.  There 
was  no  taint  of  the  snob  in  her ;  some  echo-voice  of 
other  generations  lifted  itself  out  of  the  inherited  im- 
pressions which  had  moulded  her  brain  cells,  and  pro- 
tested against  its  descendant  ranking  below  the  first  of 
the  land. 

Many  of  the  guests  were  politely  indifferent  to  the 
honour  provided  for  them ;  the  girls  stared  at  her  in  a 


196    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

manner  calculated  to  upset  any  debutante's  equilibrium  ; 
but  the  gracious  kindness  of  others  and  the  languid 
admiration  of  the  men  kept  her  in  poise. 

The  neighbours  arrived  shortly  after  the  train,  and  it 
was  an  hour  before  the  greater  part  of  the  company 
had  dispersed  over  the  grounds,  and  Patience  could  sit 
down.  Mrs.  Peele  remained  in  the  drawing-room  with 
some  eight  or  ten  people,  and  as  Hal  and  May  had 
both  disappeared,  Patience  stayed  with  her  mother-in- 
law,  not  knowing  where  to  go. 

She  thought  the  girls  very  forbidding  with  their  pert 
noses  and  keen  eyes,  although  she  admired  their  lumi- 
nous skin  and  splendid  grooming,  striking  even  in  the 
airy  attire  of  spring.  The  older  women  looked  as  if 
they  would  patronise  her  did  Mrs.  Peele  withdraw  her 
protecting  wing,  and  one  man,  passing  the  window, 
inserted  a  monocle  and  regarded  her  deliberately. 
Suddenly  Patience  experienced  a  sensation  of  profound 
loneliness.  No  force  in  life  is  surer  of  touch  than  the 
subtle  play  of  spirit  on  spirit,  and  Patience  read  that 
these  people  did  not  like  her  and  never  would,  that 
they  recognised  the  alien  who  would  regard  their  world 
spectacularly,  never  acquire  their  comic  seriousness. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  golf,  Mrs.  Peele?  "  asked  one  girl, 
languidly. 

"  I  never  have  played  golf." 

The  girl  raised  her  brows.  "  Really  !  Are  you  fond 
of  tennis  ?" 

"  I  have  never  played  tennis."  Patience  repressed 
a  smile  as  the  girl  looked  frankly  shocked.  Still  the 
guest  was  evidently  determined  to  be  amiable. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  think  it  frivolous?" 

"  Oh,  no,  I  should  like  to  learn  all  those  things  very 
much." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    197 

"Well,  Miss  Peele  can  teach  you.  She  is  awfully 
clever  at  all  those  things.  Don't  you  think  Miss  Mairs 
looks  like  Mary  Anderson?  " 

"  Mary  Anderson?" 

"Yes,  the  actress,  you  know."          ^y$. 

"  I  have  never  seen  her." 

The  girl  was  visibly  embarrassed.  Another,  who 
looked  as  if  harbouring  a  grin  in  her  straight  little 
mouth,  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Oh,  I  do  think  Mr.  Peele  is  so  good-looking,"  she 
exclaimed,  with  a  fine  show  of  animation.  "  We  all 
think  you  are  to  be  congratulated." 

Patience  smiled  at  the  frank  rudeness  of  this  remark, 
and  said  nothing. 

"  You  know  Amy  Murray  was  wild  about  him.  She  's 
not  here  to-day,  I  notice.  We  did  think  it  too  bad 
that  he  wouldn't  go  out.  Some  of  the  girls  have  met 
him  here,  but  I  never  have.  They  say  he  is  awfully 
fascinating." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  is  fascinating,"  said  Patience. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  if  you 
have  never  learned  to  golf  nor  play  tennis?  "  asked 
another  girl,  insolently.  She  was  a  tall  girl,  with  a 
wooden  face,  a  tight  mouth,  and  an  "air." 

"  Oh,  I  read,  mostly,"  said  Patience,  with  an  extremely 
bored  air. 

The  mother  of  the  third  girl  turned  swiftly  and 
smiled  at  the  bride,  a  humorous  smile  in  which  there 
was  some  pity.  Patience  had  observed  her  before. 
She  was  a  tall  woman  with  a  slender  figure  of  extreme 
elegance.  Her  dark  bright  face  was  little  older  than 
her  daughter's.  Her  ease  of  manner  was  so  great  that 
it  was  almost  self-conscious. 


198    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Oh,  say  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  don't  think  we  're  all 
like  that.  The  girls  don't  have  much  time  to  read  — 
that 's  true  —  but  after  they  settle  down  they  do,  really. 
Hal  reads  French  novels  —  the  little  reprobate  !  —  We 
read  French  npvels  too,  but  a  lot  else  besides.  Oh, 
really  !  Outsiders  —  the  people  that  only  know  society 
through  the  newspapers,  don't  you  know?  —  misjudge 
us  terribly,  really.  Some  of  the  brightest  women  of 
the  world  are  in  New  York  society  —  why  should  n't 
they  be?  And  if  the  girls  don't  study  it's  their  own 
fault ;  they  certainly  have  every  opportunity  under  the 
sun.  I  was  made  to  study.  My  father  was  old-fashioned, 
and  had  no  nonsense  about  him.  I  always  say  I  was 
educated  beyond  my  brains,  but  I  'd  rather  have  it 
that  way  than  the  other.  Now,  I  assure  you  I  read 
everything.  I  have  a  standing  order  on  the  other  side 
with  an  English  and  a  French  book-seller,  to  send  me 
every  book  the  minute  it  attracts  attention  —  " 

"  Oh,  you  're  real  intellectual,  you  are,"  drawled 
Hal's  mocking  voice. 

The  lady  turned  with  a  start  and  a  little  flush. 

"  Oh,  Hal !  "  she  cried  gaily,  "  how  you  do  take  the 
starch  out  of  one." 

"  You  've  got  enough  to  stock  a  laundry,  so  you 
need  n't  worry.  I  've  come  to  rescue  my  fair  sister-in- 
law  before  you  talk  her  to  death.  Come,  Patience." 

Patience  arose  with  alacrity,  and  followed  her  out  of 
the  house. 

"  Don't  you  like  her?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  immensely.  She 's  as  bright  as  a  woman  can 
be  who  has  so  little  time  to  think  about  it.  She 's  a 
tall  and  majestic  pillar  of  Society,  you  know,  and  she 
carries  it  —  the  intellect,  not  the  pillar  —  round  like  a 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    199 

chip  on  her  shoulder.  That  makes  me  weary  at  times. 
I  Ve  heard  her  talk  for  an  hour  without  stopping.  The 
only  thing  that  makes  me  forgive  her  is  her  slang.  We 
have  a  match  occasionally." 

"  Her  daughter  does  n't  look  as  if  she  used  slang." 

"  Oh,  she  does  n't.  She  's  no  earthly  use  whatever. 
Are  you  enjoying  yourself?  " 

"  Not  particularly.     But  it 's  a  lovely  scene." 

The  lawns,  and  knolls,  and  woods  were  kaleidoscopic 
with  fashionettes  in  gay  attire,  shifting  continually. 
There  were  not  men  enough  to  mar  the  brilliant  effect. 
The  music  of  birds  soared  above  the  chatter  of  girls, 
the  sound  of  wood  and  brass.  The  river  flashed  away 
into  the  distance,  a  silver  girdle  about  Earth's  green 
gown. 

"Yes,  very  pret,"  said  Hal.  "But  come,  I  'm  going 
to  introduce  you  to  my  latest." 

"  You  did  n't  tell  me  that  you  had  a  latest." 

"  I  Ve  only  met  him  a  few  times  —  he  's  from  Boston. 
I  expect  I  forgot  about  him." 

They  were  walking  over  the  lawns  toward  the  Tea 
House,  a  long  low  rustic  building  which  stood  on  the 
edge  of  the  slope.  A  hubbub  of  voices  floated  through 
the  windows,  peals  of  laughter,  affected  shrieks. 

"  A  lot  of  my  intimates  are  there,"  said  Hal.  "  I  Ve 
managed  to  get  them  together.  May  is  doing  the 
hostess  act  with  her  accustomed  grace  and  charm,  and 
I  'm  taking  a  half  hour  off." 

They  went  round  to  the  front  of  the  house  and 
entered.  It  was  an  airy  structure  of  polished  maple. 
Little  tables,  each  with  a  delicate  tea-service,  were 
scattered  about  with  artistic  irregularity;  round  the 
wall  ran  a  divan,  luxurious,  but  not  too  low  for  whale- 


2OO    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

boned  forms.  On  this  the  girls  were  stiffly  lounging. 
The  men  were  more  at  their  ease.  All  were  smoking, 
the  girls  daintily,  but  firmly. 

"  Hal !  Hal !  sweet  Queen  Hal !  "  cried  one  of  the 
young  men,  rising  to  his  feet.  "  I  Ve  been  keeping 
this  place  —  directly  in  the  middle  —  for  you.  See,  it 
shall  be  a  throne."  He  piled  three  cushions  atop,  and 
with  exaggerated  homage  led  her  forward  amidst  the 
ejaculatory  applause  of  the  others. 

"  Is  n't  Norry  too  witty?  "  said  one  girl  to  Patience,  as 
she  made  room  for  her,  "  and  so  original !  Whoever 
else  would  have  thought  of  such  a  thing  ?  —  although 
Hal  ought  to  be  a  queen,  don't  you  think  so?  We 
just  rave  about  her.  Do  you  smoke?  try  my  kind." 

Patience,  thankful  that  at  last  she  could  do  some- 
thing like  these  people,  accepted  the  cigarette.  During 
her  three  months'  trip  she  had  not  smoked,  as  Beverly 
thought  it  shocking. 

"Mr.  Wynne,"  cried  Hal,  suddenly,  "come  over 
here  and  talk  to  my  sister-in-law.  Patience,  this  is 
the  young  man  from  Boston,  famous  as  the  only  New 
Englander  whose  ancestors  did  not  come  over  on  the 
'  May  Flower.'  " 

A  man  with  a  smooth  serious  face  rose  from  his 
cushions  and  came  forward. 

"  Awfully  good-looking,"  murmured  the  girl  who  had 
proffered  the  cigarette,  "  and  wonderfully  smart,  con- 
sidering he  's  not  a  New  Yorker.  It 's  too  bad  he  's  so 
beastly  poor,  for  he's  terribly  e'pris  with  Hal." 

The  young  man,  who  had  paused  a  moment  to  speak 
with  Hal,  inserted  himself  as  best  he  could  between 
Patience  and  her  new  acquaintance. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are    here,"    murmured   the  bride. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    201 

"You  do  not  look  quite  at  home,  and  I  am  not, 
either." 

He  smiled  with  instant  sympathy.  "Oh,  I  don't 
care  very  much  for  society,  and  I  don't  like  to  see 
women  smoke.  It 's  an  absurd  prejudice  to  have  in 
these  progressive  days,  but  I  can't  help  it." 

"  You  mean  you  don't  like  to  see  Miss  Peele  smoke," 
said  Patience,  mischievously. 

He  flushed,  then  laughed.  "  Well,  perhaps  that  is 
it.  They  are  all  charming,  these  girls,  but  there  is 
something  about  Miss  Peele  that  distinguishes  her. 
Did  you  ever  notice  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  She  is  herself,  and  these  others  are 
twelve  for  a  dozen." 

"  That  is  it."  He  glanced  about  at  the  girls  in  their 
bright  gowns,  which  clung  to  their  tiny  waists  and  hips, 
their  narrow  chests  and  modest  busts,  with  the  wrinkle- 
less  perfection  that  has  made  the  modern  milliner  the 
god  he  is.  Their  polished  skin  and  brilliant  shallow 
eyes,  their  elegant  sexless  forms,  their  haughty  poise 
and  supercilious  air,  laid  aside  among  themselves  but 
always  in  reserve,  their  consciousness  of  caste,  were 
the  several  parts  of  a  unique  and  homogeneous  effect, 
which,  Patience  confided  to  Mr.  Wynne,  must  mark 
out  the  New  York  girl  in  whatever  wilds  she  trod. 

"  Oh,  it  does,"  he  said.  "  The  New  York  girl  is  sui 
generis,  and  so  thoroughly  artificial  a  product  that  it 
seems  incredible  she  can  exist  through  another  gener- 
ation. I  will  venture  to  predict  that  the  species  will  be 
extinct  in  three,  and  that  American  women  of  a  larger 
and  more  human  type  will  gradually  be  drawn  into  New 
York,  and  found  a  new  race,  so  to  speak.  Why,  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  children  of  these  women  must 


2O2    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

be  pigmies  —  imagine  one  of  those  girls  being  the 
mother  of  a  man.  It  is  well  that  New  York  is  not 
America." 

Involuntarily  Patience's  eyes  wandered  to  Hal.  Her 
waist  was  as  small,  her  figure  as  unwomanly  as  the 
others. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Wynne,  answering  her  thought ; 
"  but  she  is  so  jcharming  that  one  is  quite  willing  she 
should  do  nothing  further  for  the  human  race." 

Patience  burst  into  a  light  laugh. 

"  What 's  the  matter?  "  asked  Wynne. 

"  It  suddenly  struck  me  —  the  almost  comical  differ- 
ence between  these  girls  and  the  '  Y's,'  and  the''  King's 
Daughters.'  It  does  not  seem  possible  that  such  types 
can  exist  within  ten  miles  of  each  other.  I  should 
explain  that  I  have  passed  the  last  three  years  in  a 
country  town." 

"  It  is  odd  how  religion  holds  its  own  in  those  small 
places.  It  is  opera,  theatre,  balls,  Browning  societies, 
everything  to  those  people  shut  out  of  the  manifold  dis- 
tractions of  cities.  Religion  seems  to  be  the  one  ex- 
citement of  the  restricted  life.  Human  nature  demands 
some  sort  of  emotional  outlet  —  " 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  two  talking  about?"  cried 
the  girl  on  the  other  side.  "Will  you  have  another 
cigarette,  Mrs.  Beverly  ?  —  that  is  what  we  shall  all  call 
you,  you  know.  Mr.  Wynne,  please  talk  to  me  a  while. 
Is  n't  this  Tea  House  too  sweet?  " 

"  It  is  more,  —  it  is  angelic,"  said  Wynne,  gravely. 

"  Oh  !  you  're  guying  !  "  Even  her  voice  pouted. 
"  Oh  !  please  shake  those  ashes  off  my  gown  — quick  ! 
—  thanks.  Oh,  your  eyes  are  grey.  I  thought  they 
were  brown.  I  'm  afraid  of  grey  eyes,  are  n't  you,  Mrs. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    203 

Beverly  —  Oh,  dear !  your  eyes  are  grey  too.  What 
ever  shall  I  do?"  and  she  cast  up  her  hands.  Even 
her  sleek  hair  seemed  to  quiver. 

"  It  is  the  misfortune  of  the  American  race  to  run  to 
grey  eyes,"  said  Wynne.  "  Habit  should  have  steeled 
you  by  this  time  — " 

"  Oh,  he  made  a  pun  !  he  made  a  pun  !  "  cried  the 
girl. 

"  1  did  not !  —  I  beg  pardon,  but  I  never  did  such 
a  thing  in  my  life,"  cried  Wynne,  indignantly;  and 
Patience  felt  suddenly  depressed,  although  she  too  had 
found  a  friend  in  habit. 

Hal  rose  while  the  girl  was  lisping  mock  apologies. 

"  I  've  got  to  go,"  she  said.  "  Is  n't  it  hateful?  But 
I  must  go  and  do  my  duty.  Patience,  you  must 
come  too.  Why  are  you  blocking  the  doorway,  Mr. 
Wynne?" 

"I  am  going  with  you." 

"  Really?  Well,  bye-bye  ;  "  and  the  three  went  off, 
followed  by  a  gentle  chorus  of  regrets. 

"  Patience,  my  dear,"  said  Hal,  "  there  is  a  group 
of  people  over  there  looking  hideously  bored.  You 
go  and  cheer  them  up,  while  I  do  my  duty  by  those 
austere  and  venerable  dames  who  are  staring  through 
their  lorgnettes  at  the  dining-room  windows  —  " 

"  Oh,  Hal,  I  can't !  Don't  send  me  to  those  people 
alone.  What  can  I  say  to  them  ?  " 

"  Patience,  my  dear,  this  is  a  world  of  woe.  One 
day  you  will  be  chatelaine  of  this  place  and  be  giving 
garden-parties  on  your  own  account,  so  you  'd  better 
take  the  kindergarten  course,  and  be  thankful  for  the 
chance.  Go  on." 

Patience  walked  unwillingly  over  to  a  group  of  four 


204    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

women  seated  under  a  drooping  oak.  She  had  forgot- 
ten the  names  of  nine  tenths  of  the  guests,  but  she 
recognised  Mrs.  Laurence  Gibbs,  a  plain  rather  dowdy 
little  woman  with  sad  face  and  abstracted  gaze.  Be- 
side her  on  the  rustic  seat  was  a  woman  who  gave  a 
dominant  impression  of  teeth  :  they  fairly  flashed  in  the 
shadows.  In  a  chair  sat  a  woman  of  remarkable  pret- 
tiness.  She  would  have  been  a  beauty  had  her  features 
been  larger,  so  regular  were  they,  so  sweet  her  expres- 
sion, so  soft  her  colouring  of  pink  and  white  and  brown, 
so  tall  and  full  her  figure.  In  another  chair  was  a 
young  woman  of  no  beauty  but  much  distinction.  Her 
prematurely  white  hair  was  curled  and  tied  at  the  base 
of  her  head  with  a  black  ribbon,  realising  an  eighteenth 
century  effect.  Her  face  was  dark  and  brilliant.  She 
sat  forward,  her  slim  figure  full  of  suppressed  energy. 
She  had  been  talking  with  much  animation,  but  as 
Patience  approached  she  paused  abruptly.  The  pretty 
woman  burst  into  a  merry  laugh. 

"  Mrs.  Lafarge  was  just  remarking  what  hideous 
bores  garden  parties  are,"  she  said  audaciously. 

"  Oh,  you  need  n't  mind  me,"  said  Patience,  sitting 
down  on  the  grass,  as  there  was  no  other  seat.  "  I 
quite  agree  with  you." 

"  Oh,  that 's  awfully  good  of  you,  Mrs.  Peele,"  said 
Mrs.  Lafarge,  "  and  awfully  mean  of  you,  Mary  Gallatin. 
Of  course  this  is  one  of  the  loveliest  places  on  the 
Hudson,  and  I  love  to  come  here ;  but  there  are  not 
enough  men.  That 's  the  whole  trouble." 

"  That  always  seems  to  be  the  cry  with  you  American 
women,"  said  she  of  the  teeth.  "  You  have  no  re- 
sources. You  should  be  independent  of  men.  They 
seem  to  be  of  you." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    205 

"  Perhaps  you  are  driven  to  resources  in  Russia," 
said  Mrs.  Gallatin,  sweetly,  "  but  your  observation  is 
faulty.  We  are  spoiled  over  here,  and  that  is  the  reason 
we  grumble  occasionally." 

"You  see  we  haven't  a  large  leisure  class,  as  you 
have,"  said  Mrs.  Gibbs,  hastily. 

"  I  really  think  the  reason  men  avoid  garden  parties 
is  that  they  are  afraid  they  might  be  betrayed  into  sen- 
timent," broke  in  Mrs.  Lafarge.  "They  do  protect 
themselves  so  fiercely.  How  did  you  ever  make  Tom 
Gallatin  propose,  Mary  dear?  He  had  the  most  ideal 
bachelor  apartment  in  New  York,  and  entrenched 
himself  as  in  a  fortress." 

"  Oh,  one  or  two  fall  by  the  wayside  every  year, 
you  know,  and  this  time  Gaily  happened  to  stumble 
over  me.  Poor  Gaily,  he  told  me  yesterday  that  he 
had  n't  seen  me  to  speak  to  for  a  month.  The  idea 
of  the  lower  classes  grumbling.  I  should  like  to  know 
who  works  as  hard  as  we  do.  How  do  you  manage  to 
do  the  society  and  the  charity,  both?"  she  asked  of 
Mrs.  Gibbs.  "  Does  Mr.  Gibbs  ever  see  you  ?  " 

"  I  never  neglect  my  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Gibbs, 
sternly.  "  When  I  must  neglect  anything  it  is  society. 
I  came  to-day  because  I  longed  for  a  glimpse  of  the 
country,  and  I  have  not  been  able  to  go  to  Woody 
Cliffs  yet  —  the  poverty  is  so  terrible  this  year.  I  wish 
you  would  come  with  me  sometime  and  see  for 
yourself  —  " 

"  God  forbid  !  I  never  could  stand  the  smells.  I 
give  my  pastor  so  much  a  year,  and  I  really  think  that 's 
doing  one's  share.  Of  course  if  you  like  it,  it 's  another 
thing." 

"  Like  it !  "  cried  the  Russian.     "  You  speak  as  if  it 


206    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

were  her  pastime.  I  cannot  express  how  gratifying  it 
is  to  me  to  meet  a  serious  woman  occasionally  in  New 
York  society." 

"  I  had  a  lovely  time  in  Petersbourg,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Gallatin.  "  I  never  met  an  offensive  Russian  inside  of 
the  country.  Poor  America  !  " 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  the  foreigner,  stiffly. 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  you  understand  English  —  you 
express  yourself  so  clearly.  We  all  weep  over  America 
occasionally,  you  know.  It  is  a  sort  of  dumping  ground 
for  foreigners,  —  who  sit  at  our  feet,  and  abuse  us." 

"  One  is  at  liberty  to  abuse  insolence,"  said  the  Rus- 
sian, with  suppressed  wrath,  "  and  the  women  of  New 
York  are  the  most  insolent  I  have  ever  met." 

"  Oh,  not  among  ourselves  —  not  really.  We  think 
it  insolent  in  outsiders  to  elbow  their  way  in  —  " 

"Mary!  Mary!"  cried  Mrs.  Gibbs.  "I  hear  that 
you  spent  some  years  with  Miss  Harriet  Tremont,"  she 
continued,  addressing  Patience.  "  She  passed  her 
entire  life  in  charitable  work,  did  she  not?  " 

"  Oh,  she  did,  and  she  enjoyed  it  too.     Don't  you?  " 

Mrs.  Gallatin  laughed  softly. 

"  Enjoy  it  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Gibbs.  "  I  never  have  looked 
at  it  in  that  way.  I  think  it  my  duty  to  aid  my  miser- 
able fellow  beings,  and  I  am  thankful  that  I  am  able  to 
aid  them." 

"  Odd,  the  fads  different  people  have,"  murmured 
Mrs.  Gallatin.  "  Now  mine  is  Russians.  What  is  yours, 
Leontine?" 

"Oh,  Mary,  you  deserve  to  be  shaken,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Lafarge,  as  the  Russian  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
stalked  away. 

"  I  can't  help  it.     She  's  a  boor,  and  I  wish  she  'd  go 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    207 

back  and  live  with  a  Cossack.  Foreigners  are  all  very 
well  on  their  native  heath,  but  as  soon  as  they  are  trans- 
planted to  this  side  and  treated  with  common  decency 
they  become  intolerable.  They  grovel  at  our  feet,  swell 
because  we  receive  them,  and  sneer  at  us  behind  our 
backs." 

"  I  think  you  have  a  way  of  irritating  them,  my  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Gibbs.  "  You  are  a  very  naughty  girl. 
Won't  you  sit  up  here  by  me,  Mrs.  Peele  ?  I  am  afraid 
the  ground  is  damp.  I  shall  ask  you  some  time  to 
explain  to  me  Miss  Tremont's  methods.  I  often  feel 
sadly  at  sea." 

"  Oh,  dear !  "  said  Patience,  "  I  doubt  if  I  know 
them.  I  just  followed  her  blindly.  I  may  as  well 
confess  it  —  I  did  n't  take  a  very  great  interest  in  the 
work." 

"  Oh,  how  lovely  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Gallatin. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  have  made  a  mistake,"  said  Mrs. 
Gibbs,  stiffly. 

"  Oh,  well  — you  know  —  there  is  such  a  thing  as  get- 
ting too  much  of  anything  —  " 

"  Is  there  ?  "  Mrs.  Gibbs  rose,  and  shook  out  her 
skirts  with  an  absent  air.  "  I  think  I  will  go  over  and 
talk  to  Mrs.  Peele ;  "  and  she  walked  away  with  an  awk- 
ward gait,  her  head  bent  forward.  She  certainly  did 
not  have  an  "  air." 

"Dear!  dear!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gallatin.  "Just 
think !  you  have  lost  the  interest  of  Mrs.  Laurence 
Gibbs.  She  might  have  invited  you  to  her  exciting 
musicales  or  her  cast-iron  dinners." 

"  Oh,  don't  abuse  her,"  said  Mrs.  Lafarge.  "She  is 
a  harmless  little  soul,  and  does  what  she  thinks  is  right." 

"  She  is  happier  too,"  said  Patience,  her  thoughts  in 


208    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Mariaville.  "  It  is  odd,  but  they  always  are.  I  think 
it 's  because  they  Ve  unconsciously  cultivated  the  suprem- 
est  and  most  inspired  form  of  egoism,  and  naturally 
they  get  a  tremendous  amount  of  joy  out  of  it  —  " 

"Hear!  Hear!"  cried  Mrs.  Gallatin.  "She  ana- 
lyses !  " 

"  My  dear,  you  mustn't  do  that  out  loud,"  said  Mrs. 
Lafarge.  "You'll  be  a  terrible  failure  if  you  do." 

"That  would  be  a  pity,  because  you  are  so  pretty," 
said  Mrs.  Gallatin,  smiling.  "  I  Ve  been  staring  at 
you  whenever  I  Ve  had  the  chance,  and  you  don't 
know  how  many  charming  things  I  Ve  heard  said  of 
you  this  afternoon." 

"Oh,  have  you  really?"  asked  Patience,  warming  in- 
stantly, as  much  to  the  kindly  sympathy  as  to  the  agree- 
able words. 

"  Indeed  I  have.  That  violet  against  your  hair  and 
skin  makes  a  perfect  picture  of  you.  N'est-ce  pas, 
Leontine?" 

"  It  certainly  does." 

"  I  think  you  are  both  very  kind,"  said  Patience,  with 
a  young  impulse  to  be  frank.  "  I  feel  so  out  of  it  all. 
You  see  this  is  my  first  experience  of  this  sort  of  thing, 
and  some  of  those  girls  have  made  me  feel  like  a 
barbarian." 

"  They  'd  be  glad  of  your  freshness,  not  only  of  looks 
but  of  mind,"  said  Mary  Gallatin.  "  I  should  think  it 
would  be  a  blessed  relief  tojiave  some  other  sort  of  inter- 
est but  just  this,"  and  she  swept  out  her  arm  disdainfully. 
"  That 's  the  reason  I  go,  go,  all  the  time.  I  don't  dare 
think.  When  you  have  no  talent,  and  are  not  intellect- 
ual, and  not  frantic  about  your  husband,  what  are  you 
to  do  ?  There 's  no  other  resource,  in  spite  of  that 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    209 

Russian  prig.  I  'd  give  a  good  deal  to  be  beginning  it 
all  again  at  eighteen." 

"There  is  no  spice  in  life  without  violent  contrasts," 
said  Mrs.  Lafarge.  "  That 's  the  real  reason  why  so 
many  of  our  good  young  friends  are  larky.  The 
trouble  with  this  world  is  that  although  there  is  variety 
enough  in  it,  each  variety  travels  in  a  different  orbit. 
The  social  scheme  is  all  wrong,  somehow." 

" True  !  True  !  "  said  Mrs.  Gallatin,  plaintively.  "But 
I  see  they  are  about  to  eat.  The  open  air  always  makes 
me  hungry.  That  is  variety  enough  for  the  present." 

As  they  crossed  the  lawn  she  laid  her  arm  about 
Patience's  waist.  "  Bev  does  n't  like  society,"  she  said, 
"  and  I'm  afraid  you  're  not  in  any  danger  of  satiety ; 
but  don't  think  out  loud  when  you  are  in  it.  Leontine 
never  does,  do  you,  Leontine  ?  And  she  is  clever  too. 
It  must  be  delightful  to  be  clever.  Heigh-ho  !  '  Well, 
you  must  be  sure  to  come  to  see  me  anyhow.  I  feel 
positive  we  shall  be  friends.  Come  some  morning  at 
eleven.  That  is  just  after  I  have  had  my  tub  and  am 
back  in  bed  again.  I  love  to  see  my  friends  then. 
Oh,  dear,  we  must  scatter.  There  are  not  two  seats 
together  anywhere.  Bye-bye." 


Ill 


"THANK  God  they 're  gone."  Hal  divested  her'self  of 
her  tight  smart  frock,  got  into  a  lawn  gown,  lit  a  ciga- 
rette, and  extended  herself  on  the  divan  in  her  bedroom. 
"Well,  Patience,  how  did  you  like  it?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  made  the  hit  you  expected." 
14 


2io    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"N-o-o-o,  you  didn't  exactly  create  a  furore;  but  I 
don't  know  that  any  one  could  do  that  with  so  much 
oxygen  round :  makes  peoples  so  drowsy,  don't  you 
know  ?  But  you  were  admired  awfully.  And  then  you 
are  an  unconventional  beauty,  and  that  always  takes 
longer.  Now,  May  made  a  howling  sensation,  but  peo- 
ple are  tired  of  her  already.  That  type  does  n't  wear. 
My  plain  phiz  wears  much  better,  because  there  was 
never  any  chance  of  reaction  with  me.  Oh,  dear,  here 
comes  Bev." 

A  knock,  and  in  response  to  Hal's  languid  invitation, 
Beverly  entered.  He  was  in  evening  clothes,  and  as 
handsome  as  ever ;  but  he  looked  rather  sulky. 

"You  might  have  met  me  when  I  got  home,"  he 
said  to  his  wife.  "  I  have  n't  seen  you  since  luncheon." 

"  Tragic  !  "  exclaimed  Hal. 

"  I  was  so  tired  I  just  drifted  in  here  and  fell  in  a 
heap,"  said  Patience,  apologetically.  "My  skull  feels 
empty,  and  aches  inside  and  out." 

"Then  you  don't  like  society?"  said  Mr.  Peele, 
eagerly. 

"  Oh,  very  much  indeed  !  I  think  it  is  delightful, 
delightful!  Only  the  first  time  is  rather  trying,  you 
know.  I  met  some  charming  people,  and  want  to  meet 
them  again." 

Peele  grunted,  and  lit  his  cigar.  His  eyes  devoured 
his  wife's  fair  face.  Patience  looked  at  Hal. 

"My  mother  says  you  carried  yourself  very  well," 
remarked  Mr.  Peele,  gracefully ;  "  that  after  the  first 
you  were  quite  at  your  ease.  That  was  one  reason  I 
went  away :  I  was  so  afraid  you  'd  break  down,  or 
something." 

Patience  flushed  angrily,  but  made  no  reply.     She 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    211 

had  learned  that  even  a  slight  dispute  would  move  her 
husband  to  a  violent  outbreak. 

"  She  looked  more  to  the  manor  born  than  half  the 
guests,"  said  Hal,  "  and  if  you  took  her  out  next  winter 
she  'd  become  the  rage  —  " 

"  I  don't  wish  my  wife  to  be  the  rage  !  And  she  is 
going  to  stay  here.  If  she  loves  me  as  much  as  I  love 
her  she  '11  be  as  contented  with  my  society  as  I  am  with 
hers." 

"  As  if  any  woman  ever  loved  a  man  as  much  as  he 
loved  her,"  remarked  Miss  Peele.  "  I  am  sure  Patience 
is  no  such  idiot." 

"  What?  "  cried  Beverly.     Patience  rose  hastily. 

"  I  think  I  '11  go  and  brush  my  hair,"  she  said,  mov- 
ing to  the  door ;  but  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  stood  in 
front  of  her. 

"  Tell  me  !  "  he  cried,  his  voice  shaking.  "  Don't 
you  love  me  as  much  as  I  love  you? " 

"  Oh,  Beverly,"  she  said,  impatiently,  "  how  can 
you  get  into  such  tempers  about  nothing?  You  have 
asked  me  if  I  loved  you  about  nine  thousand  times 
since  we  were  married.  How  am  I  to  know  how  much 
you  love  me?  Have  you  a  plummet  and  line  about 
you?" 

"You  are  dodging  the  question.  And  you  have 
never  asked  me  if  I  loved  you  —  not  once  —  " 

Patience  slipped  past  him  and  ran  down  the  hall  to  her 
room.  Before  she  could  close  the  door  he  was  beside 
her.  He  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  violently. 

"  I  shall  always  be  mad  about  you,"  he  said.  "And 
I  believe  you  are  growing  cold.  You  have  not  been 
the  same  lately.  Sometimes  I  think  that  you  shrink 
from  me  as  you  did  at  first.  Tell  me  what  I  have 


212    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

done.  I  'd  sell  my  soul  to  keep  you.  If  you  are  tired 
of  me,  I  '11  kill  myself—  " 

She  disengaged  herself.  "  Listen,"  she  said ;  "  I  Ve 
tried  to  explain  —  but  you  don't  seem  to  understand  — 
that  I  did  n't  want  to  fall  in  love  with  you  —  not  in  that 
way.  That  should  not  come  first.  Then  when  I  found 
myself  made  of  common  clay,  I  said  that  I  would  forget 
that  I  had  ever  been  Patience  Sparhawk,  and  begin  life 
again  as  Mrs.  Beverly  Peele.  Novelty  helped  me  ;  and 
when  one  is  travelling,  one's  ego  appears  to  be  dis- 
solved into  the  changing  scene  —  one  is  simply  a  sen- 
sitised plate.  But  now  I  am  beginning  to  feel  like 
Patience  Sparhawk  again,  and  it  frightens  me  a  little." 

Beverly,  to  whom  the  larger  part  of  these  remarks 
were  pure  Greek,  blanched  to  the  lips. 

"  Then  you  regret  it,"  he  stammered. 

"  I  did  n't  say  that.  I  only  mean  that  I  seem  to 
spend  life  readjusting  myself;  and  that  now  I  seem  to 
be  all  at  sea  again." 

"  You  don't  love  me  any  longer  !  Oh,  God  !  "  and 
he  flung  himself  on  the  floor,  and  burying  his  face  in  a 
chair,  groaned  aloud. 

Patience  was  disgusted,  but  his  suffering,  primary  as 
it  was,  touched  her.  Moreover,  her  broad  vein  of  phi- 
losophy was  active  once  more.  She  was  by  no  means 
prepared  to  leave  him  —  the  tide  was  ebbing  very  slowly. 
She  sat  down  on  the  chair,  and  lifted  his  face  to  her 
lap.  "  There,"  she  said,  "  I  am  sorry  I  spoke.  You 
don't  seem  to  understand  me.  If  you  did,  though,  this 
scene  could  never  have  occurred.  But  I  love  you  — 
of  course  —  and  I  do  not  regret  it.  So  get  up  and 
bathe  your  eyes.  It  is  after  seven  o'clock." 

He  kissed  her  hands,  his  face  glowing  again.     The 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    213 

words  were  all  sufficient  to  him.     "  Then  if  you  love 
me  you  will  see  how  happy  I  '11  make  you,"  he  ex- 
claimed.    "  I  '11  never  leave  you  a  minute  I  can  help  ; 
but  if  you  stop  loving  me  I  '11  make  life  hell  for  you." 
"  I  thought  you  said  you  'd  kill  yourself." 
"  Well,  I  would,  but  I  'd  get  square  with  you  first." 
"  Well,  suppose  you  go  into  your  own  room  now,  and 
let  me  dress  for  dinner." 


IV 

THE  summer  passed  agreeably  enough.  Circumstances 
prevented  Beverly  bestowing  an  undue  amount  of  his 
society  on  his  wife,  and  until  a  woman  is  wholly  tired 
of  a  man  she  retains  her  self  respect.  Moreover, 
Patience  chose  to  believe  herself  in  love  with  him : 
"  it  had  been  in  her  original  estimate  of  herself  that  she 
had  been  at  fault."  She  persuaded  herself  that  she 
loved  him  as  much  as  she  could  love  any  man,  and 
she  did  her  pathetic  best  to  shed  some  glimmer  of  spir- 
itual light  into  a  man  who  might  have  been  compounded 
in  a  laboratory,  so  little  soul  was  in  him.  But  despite 
the  clay  which  was  hers,  she  loved  it  a  great  deal  for  a 
time  in  loving  it  at  all,  for  that  was  her  nature. 

She  went  to  several  other  garden-parties,  and  found 
them  more  amusing  than  her  own,  although  the  young 
men  that  frequented  them  were  quite  uninteresting : 
even  Beverly  scintillated  by  contrast,  for  he,  at  least, 
had  a  temper ;  these  more  civilised  youths  appeared  to 
have  no  emotions  whatever. 

Peele  Manor  was  full  of  company  all  summer.     Pa- 


214    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

tience  found  the  married  men  more  entertaining  than 
the  younger  ones,  although  they  usually  made  love  to 
her ;  but  after  she  had  outgrown  her  surprise  and  dis- 
approval of  their  direct  and  business-like  methods,  it 
amused  her  to  fence  with  them.  They  had  more  self- 
control  than  Beverly  Peele,  and  were  a  trifle  more  skil- 
ful, but  their  general  attitude  was,  as  she  expressed  it 
to  Hal :  "  There 's  no  time  to  lose,  dontcherknow ! 
Life  is  short,  and  New  York 's  a  busy  place.  What  the 
deuce  is  there  to  wait  for?  Sentiment?  Oh,  sentiment 
be  hanged  !  It  takes  too  much  time." 

Hal  was  an  accomplished  hostess,  and  allowed  her 
guests  little  time  to  make  love  or  to  yawn.  There  were 
constant  riding  and  driving  and  yachting  parties,  pic- 
nics and  tennis  and  golf.  In  the  evening  they  danced, 
romped,  or  had  impromptu  "Varieties." 

Patience  was  fascinated  with  the  life,  although  she 
still  had  the  sense  of  being  an  alien,  and  moments  of 
terrible  loneliness.  But  she  was  too  much  of  a  girl  not 
to  take  a  girl's  delight  in  the  dash  and  glitter  and  pic- 
turesqueness  of  society.  She  was  not  popular,  although 
she  quickly  outgrew  any  external  points  of  difference ; 
but  the  essential  difference  was  felt  and  resented. 

On  the  whole  there  was  concord  between  herself  and 
her  mother-in-law.  Mr.  Peele  she  barely  knew.  His 
family  saw  little  of  him.  He  had  not  attended  the  wed- 
ding. When  Patience  had  arrived  at  Peele  Manor  after 
her  trip,  he  had  kissed  her  formally,  and  remarked 
that  he  hoped  she  "  would  make  something  of  Beverly." 

He  was  an  undersized  man  with  scant  iron  grey  hair 
whose  tint  seemed  to  have  invaded  his  complexion. 
His  lips  were  folded  on  each  other  so  closely,  that 
Patience  watched  them  curiously  at  table :  when  eat- 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    215 

ing  they  merely  moved  apart  as  if  regulated  by  a 
spring;  their  expression  never  changed.  His  eyes 
were  dark  and  rather  dull,  his  nose  straight  and  fine,  his 
hands  small  and  very  white.  He  was  not  an  eloquent 
man  at  the  bar ;  he  owed  his  immense  success  to  his 
mastery  of  the  law,  to  a  devilish  subtlety,  and  to  his 
skill  at  playing  upon  the  weak  points  of  human  nature. 
No  man  could  so  adroitly  upset  an  "  objection,"  no 
man  so  terrify  a  witness.  It  was  said  of  him  that  he 
played  upon  a  jury  with  the  consummate  art  of  a  great 
musician  for  his  instrument.  He  rarely  lost  a  case. 

His  voice  was  very  soft,  his  manners  exquisite.  He 
was  never  known  to  lose  his  temper.  His  cold  aristo- 
cratic face  looked  the  sarcophagus  of  buried  passions. 

He  deeply  resented  his  children's  failure  to  inherit 
his  brain,  but  in  his  inordinate  pride  of  birth,  forgave 
them,  for  they  bore  the  name  of  Peele.  Hal  was  his 
favourite,  for  she,  at  least,  was  bright. 

May  admired  her  sister-in-law  "to  death,"  as  she 
phrased  it,  and  bored  her  with  attentions.  Patience 
preferred  Honora,  who  puzzled  and  repelled  her,  but 
assuredly  could  not  be  called  superficial,  although  her 
claims  to  intellectuality  were  based  upon  her  preference 
for  George  Eliot  and  George  Meredith  to  the  lighter 
order  of  fiction,  and  upon  her  knowledge  of  the  history 
of  the  Catholic  Church. 

One  day,  as  Patience  was  crossing  the  lawn  in  front 
of  the  house,  May  called  to  her  from  the  hall,  beckoning 
excitedly.  She  and  Hal  and  Honora  were  standing  by 
a  table  on  which  was  a  saucer  half  full  of  what  appeared 
to  be  dead  leaves.  As  Patience  entered,  May  lifted  the 
saucer  to  her  sister-in-law's  nostrils. 

"Why?      What?"    asked   Patience,   then  paused. 


2i6    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Oh,  —  what  a  faint,  delicious,  far-away  perfume,"  she 
said  after  a  moment.     "  What  is  it?  " 

May  dropped  the  saucer  and  clapped  her  hands. 
Hal  laughed  as  if  much  gratified.  Honora's  eyes  wan- 
dered to  the  landscape  with  an  absent  and  introspective 
regard. 

"What  is  it?  "  asked  Patience  again. 

"Why,  it's  dried  strawberry  leaves,"  said  May. 
"  Don't  you  know  that  they  say  in  the  South  that  you 
can't  perceive  their  perfume  unless  every  drop  of 
blood  in  your  veins  is  blue?  The  common  people 
can't  smell  it  at  all." 

Patience  blushed  and  moved  her  head  disdainfully, 
but  she  thrilled  with  pleasure. 

"Won't  you  come  up  and  see  my  room?"  said 
Honora,  softly.  "  You  've  never  called  on  me  yet,  and 
I  think  I  have  a  very  pretty  room." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  be  delighted,"  said  Patience,  who  was 
half  consciously  avoiding  Beverly:  Peele  Manor  was 
without  guests  for  a  few  hours. 

"  Now  you  must  tell  me  if  you  like  my  room  as  much 
as  you  do  me,"  said  Honora,  who  looked  more  like  an 
angel  than  ever,  in  a  white  mull  frock  and  blue  sash. 
Her  manner  to  Patience  was  evenly  affectionate,  with 
an  undercurrent  of  subtle  sadness  and  reproach. 

As  she  opened  the  door  of  her  room,  Patience 
exclaimed  with  admiration.  The  ceiling  was  blue, 
frescoed  with  golden  stars,  the  walls  with  celestial 
visions.  A  blue  carpet  strewn  with  lilies  covered  the 
floor,  fluttering  curtains  of  blue  silk  and  white  muslin, 
the  old  windows.  From  the  dome  of  the  brass  bed- 
stead mull  curtains  hung  like  clouds.  A  faint  odour  of 
incense  mixed  with  the  sweet  perfumes  of  summer. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    217 

"  Is  it  not  beautiful?  "  said  Honora,  in  a  rapt  voice. 
"It  makes  me  think  of  heaven.  Does  it  not  you?  It 
was  dear  Aunt  Honora's  last  Christmas  gift  to  me.  It 
was  so  sweet  of  her,  for  of  course  I  am  only  the  poor 
cousin." 

Patience  looked  at  her,  wondering,  as  she  had  often 
done,  whether  the  girl  were  a  fool,  or  deeper  than  any 
one  of  her  limited  experience.  Honora  rarely  talked, 
but  she  had  reduced  listening  to  a  fine  art,  and  was  a 
favourite  in  society.  Whether  she  had  nothing  to  say, 
or  whether  she  had  divined  that  her  poverty  would 
make  eloquence  unpardonable,  Patience  had  not  deter- 
mined. One  thing  was  patent,  however :  she  managed 
her  aunt,  and  her  wants  were  never  ignored. 

"  Now,"  she  said  softly,  "  I  am  going  to  show  you 
something  that  I  don't  show  to  every  one  —  but  you  are 
dear  Beverly's  wife."  She  folded  a  screen  and  revealed 
an  altar  covered  with  cloth  of  silver,  antique  candle- 
sticks, and  heavy  silver  cross. 

"  My  faith  which  sustains  me  in  all  the  trials  of  life," 
whispered  Honora,  crossing  herself.  "Ah,  if  I  could 
have  made  dear  Beverly  a  convert.  Once  he  seemed 
balancing  —  but  he  slipped  away.  I  have  tried  to  win 
Hal  and  May  to  the  true  faith  too ;  but  we  were  always 
so  much  more  to  each  other  —  Beverly  and  I,  —  play- 
mates from  childhood.  I  think  I  know  him  better  than 
anybody  in  the  world." 

Patience  felt  an  interloper,  a  thief  and  an  alien,  but 
out  of  her  new  schooling  answered  carelessly :  "  Oh, 
he  is  awfully  fond  of  you,  but  I  don't  think  he  is  in- 
clined to  be  religious.  This  room  is  too  sanctified  to 
speak  above  a  whisper  in.  Come  to  my  room  and  talk 
to  me  awhile." 


218    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Honora  opened  a  door  by  the  head  of  her  bed,  and 
they  passed  through  a  large  lavatory,  then  through 
Beverly's  room  to  that  of  the  bride,  a  square  room 
whose  windows  framed  patches  of  Hudson  and  Pali- 
sade, and  daintily  furnished  in  lilac  and  white.  A 
photograph  of  Miss  Tremont  hung  between  the  win- 
dows. On  one  side  were  shelves  containing  John 
Sparhawk's  library. 

Beverly  arose  from  a  deep  chair,  where  he  had  been 
smoking  and  glowering  upon  the  Hudson.  Patience 
caught  Honora  firmly  by  the  waist  and  pushed  her  into 
the  most  comfortable  chair  in  the  room,  then  with  much 
skill  engaged  her  in  a  discussion  with  Beverly  upon  the 
subject  of  music,  the  one  subject  besides  horse  which 
interested  him. 


IN  August  the  girls  went  to  Newport,  and  Patience  be- 
came very  tired  of  her  mother-in-law.  May  returned 
engaged  to  a  wealthy  Cuban,  who  had  been  dancing 
attendance  on  her  blondinitude  for  some  months  past, 
and  Mrs.  Peele  became  so  amiable  that  she  forgot  to 
lecture  her  daughter-in-law  or  irritate  her  with  the  large 
vigilance  of  her  polaric  eyes.  The  girls  left  again  for 
Lenox  and  Tuxedo.  On  the  first  of  January  the  family 
moved  to  their  town  house  for  the  winter. 

Patience  was  alone  with  her  husband. 

During  the  first  three  days  of  this  new  connubial 
solitude  it  snowed  heavily.  Beverly  could  not  ride  nor 
drive,  and  wandered  restlessly  between  the  stable  and 
the  library,  where  his  wife  sat  before  the  blazing  logs. 

There  were  some  two  thousand  volumes  at  Peele 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    219 

Manor.  Patience  had  had  no  time  to  read  since  her 
marriage,  but  on  the  morning  of  the  family's  departure 
she  made  for  the  library,  partly  in  self  defence,  partly 
with  pleasurable  anticipation.  She  hoped  that  Beverly 
would  succumb  to  the  charms  of  the  stable,  where  there 
were  many  congenial  spirits  and  a  comfortable  parlour ; 
but  she  had  barely  discovered  Heine's  prose  and  had 
read  but  ten  pages  of  the  "  Reisebilder,"  when  the  door 
opened,  and  he  came  in.  She  merely  nodded,  and  went 
on  reading.  She  was  barely  conscious  of  his  presence, 
for  Heine  is  a  magician,  and  she  was  already  under  his 
spell. 

"  Well,  you  might  shut  up  your  book  and  talk  to 
me,"  said  Beverly,  pettishly,  flinging  himself  into  a 
chair  opposite  her.  "  This  is  a  nice  way  to  treat  a 
fellow  on  a  stormy  day." 

"  Oh,  you  read  too,"  murmured  Patience. 

"  No,  I  will  not.     I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Patience  closed  the  book  over  her  finger  and  looked 
at  him  impatiently.  Then  an  idea  occurred  to  her,  and 
she  spoke  with  her  usual  impulsiveness. 

"Look,  Beverly,"  she  said,  "you  and  I  have  to  spend 
many  months  alone  together,  and  if  we  are  to  make 
a  success  of  matrimony  we  must  be  companions,  and 
to  be  companions  we  must  have  similar  tastes.  Now 
I  '11  make  a  bargain  with  you  :  I  '11  try  to  like  horses  if 
you  '11  try  to  like  books.  On  pleasant  days  I  '11  ride  and 
drive  with  you,  and  when  it  storms  we  '11  read  together 
here  in  the  library.  I  am  sure  you  will  like  it  after  a 
time.  If  you  find  it  tiresome  to  read  to  yourself  I  '11  read 
aloud.  I  don't  mind,  and  then  we  can  talk  it  over." 

"All  right,"  said  Beverly.  "Anything  you  say. 
What 's  that  you  're  reading  now?  " 


22O    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Heine's  prose.  He  is  wonderful  —  such  a  style  and 
such  sardonic  wit,  and  such  exquisite  thoughts.  I  '11 
begin  all  over  again.  Now  light  a  cigar  and  make 
yourself  comfortable." 

For  a  half  hour  she  read  aloud,  and  then  Mr.  Peele 
remarked, — 

"  Hang  it !     The  skating  is  spoiled  for  a  week." 

"  Oh,  Beverly,  you  have  n't  been  listening." 

"  Well,  I  don't  like  it  very  much.  He  skips  around 
so.  Besides,  I  always  did  hate  Germans.  Give  me 
America  every  time." 

"Well,  read  something  American  then,"  said  Pa- 
tience, crossly. 

"  You  find  something  and  read  it  to  me.  I  like  to 
hear  your  voice,  even  if  I  can't  keep  my  mind  on  it. 
Wait  a  while  though.  I  guess  I  '11  go  and  see  how  the 
stable  is  getting  on." 

He  bent  down  to  kiss  his  wife,  but  she  was  once 
more  absorbed,  and  did  not  see  him.  He  snatched  the 
book  from  her  with  an  oath  and  flung  it  across  the 
room.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  with  flashing  eyes, 
pushed  him  aside  with  no  gentle  hand,  and  ran  after 
the  book. 

"  You  sha'n't  read  that  book  !  "  he  cried.  "  The  idea 
of  forgetting  your  husband  for  a  book  —  a  book  !  You 
are  a  lovely  wife  !  You  are  a  disgrace  to  the  name  ! 
You  would  rather  read  than  kiss  your  husband  !  I  '11 
lock  this  room  up,  damned  if  I  don't." 

"  I  '11  go  and  live  with  Miss  Beale  and  do  Tem- 
perance work,"  sobbed  Patience.  "  I  won't  live  with 
you." 

"Oh,  you  won't  —  what?  What  did  I  marry  you 
for?  My  God  !  What  did  I  marry  you  for?  My  life 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    221 

is  hell,  for  I  'm  no  fool.  I  know  you  don't  love  me. 
You  married  me  for  my  money." 

"I  wish  I  had,"  she  exclaimed  passionately,  then 
controlled  herself.  "  I  hope  we  are  not  going  to 
squabble  in  the  usual  commonplace  way.  I  shall  not, 
at  any  rate.  If  you  lose  your  temper,  you  can  have  the 
quarrel  all  to  yourself.  I  shall  not  pay  any  attention 
to  you.  Now  go  out  to  the  stable  and  cool  off,  and 
when  you  come  back  I  '11  read  something  else  to 
you." 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes  — yes." 

And  Beverly  disappeared,  slamming  the  door  behind 
him. 

"  I  wonder  if  any  one  on  earth  has  such  a  temper," 
she  thought.  "  And  people  believe  that  vulgarity  and 
lack  of  control  are  confined  to  the  lower  classes  !  What 
is  the  matter  with  civilisation  anyhow?  I  can  only 
explain  my  own  remarkable  aberration  in  this  way : 
youthful  love  is  a  compound  of  curiosity,  a  surplus  of 
vitality,  and  inherited  sentimentalism.  It  is  likely  to 
arrive  just  after  the  gamut  of  children's  diseases  has  run 
its  course.  Of  course  the  disease  is  merely  a  com- 
placent state  of  the  system  until  the  germ  arrives,  which 
same  is  the  first  attractive  and  masterful  man.  All 
diseases  run  their  course,  however.  I  could  not  be 
more  insensible  to  Beverly  Peele's  dead  ancestors  out 
in  the  vault  than  I  am  to  him.  No  woman  is  capable 
of  loving  at  nineteen.  She  is  nothing  but  an  overgrown 
child,  a  chaos  of  emotions  and  imagination.  There 
ought  to  be  a  law  passed  that  no  woman  could  marry 
until  she  was  twenty-eight.  Then,  perhaps  a  few  of  us 
would  feel  less  like  —  Well,  there  is  nothing  to  do  but 


222    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

make  the  best  of  it,  regard  life  as  a  highly  seasoned 
comedy,  in  which  one  is  little  more  than  a  spectator, 
after  all  —  and  at  present  I  have  Heine." 

Beverly  did  not  return  for  an  hour.  When  he  did 
she  rose  at  once,  and  running  her  eye  along  the  shelves, 
selected  a  volume  of  Webster's  Speeches. 

"You  like  politics,"  she  said;  "and  all  of  us  should 
read  the  great  works  of  our  great  men.  I  '11  read  the 
famous  Seventh  of  March  Speech." 

And  she  did,  Beverly  listening  with  considerable 
attention.  When  she  had  finished  he  remarked  enthu- 
siastically,— 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  speech  has  made  me  make 
up  my  mind  to  do ?  I'm  going  to  run  for  the  Senate, 
and  make  speeches  like  that  myself." 

Patience  merely  stared  at  him.  She  wondered  if  he 
were  really  something  more  than  a  fool ;  if  there  was  a 
sort  of  post-graduate  course. 

"  What  makes  you  look  at  me  like  that  ?  Don't  you 
think  I  can?" 

"  Well  —  "   She  hardly  knew  what  to  say. 

"  Well !  Is  that  the  way  you  encourage  a  fellow  ? 
You  are  a  nice  wife.  Here  my  father  has  been  at  me 
all  my  life  to  do  something,  and  just  as  soon  as  I  make 
up  my  mind,  my  wife  laughs  at  me." 

"  I  did  n't  laugh  at  you." 

"  Well,  it 's  all  the  same.  If  I  never  do  anything,  it  '11 
be  your  fault." 

"  Go  to  the  Senate  just  as  fast  as  ever  you  can  get 
there.  And  you  might  as  well  spend  the  rest  of  the 
day  studying  Webster ;  but  suppose  you  read  to  your- 
self for  a  while  :  my  throat  is  tired." 

"  I  don't  like  to  read  to  myself." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    223 

"  Well,  anyhow,  I  hear  Lawson  coming.  Luncheon 
is  ready." 

The  table  in  the  dining-room  had  been  divested  of 
its  leaves,  and  the  young  couple  sat  only  a  few  feet 
apart.  The  room  had  once  been  a  banqueting-hall. 
It  was  very  large  and  dark.  The  white  light  filtered 
meagrely  through  the  small  panes.  The  wind  moaned 
through  the  naked  elms. 

"  The  country  is  awfully  dull  in  winter,"  remarked 
Patience.  "  I  wish  we  were  in  town." 

"  That 's  a  beautiful  speech  to  make  to  a  husband. 
I  don't  mind  so  long  as  you  are  here." 

"Of  course  I  am  deeply  flattered,"  and  she  smiled 
upon  him.  There  seemed  nothing  else  to  do. 

"  Damn  it ! "  cried  Beverly,  "  this  steak  is  as  thin 
as  a  plate  and  burnt  to  a  cinder.  Patience,  I  do  wish 
you  'd  give  some  of  your  attention  to  housekeeping  and 
less  to  books.  It  is  your  place  to  see  that  things  are 
properly  cooked,  now  that  Honora  is  gone." 

"  Oh,  dear.  I  don't  know  anything  about  cooking,  or 
housekeeping,  either." 

"  Well,  then,  I  'd  be  much  obliged  if  you  'd  learn  as 
quickly  as  possible.  Take  this  steak  out,"  he  said  to 
the  maid,  "  and  bring  some  cold  beef  or  ham.  Damn 
it !  I  might  have  known  that  when  Honora  went  away 
I  'd  have  nothing  fit  to  eat,  with  this  new  cook." 

But  Patience  refused  to  continue  the  conversation,  and 
when  the  ham  and  beef  came  he  ate  of  them  with  such 
relish  that  his  good-nature  returned  as  speedily  as  it 
had  departed. 

During  the  afternoon  the  scene  of  the  morning  was 
repeated  with  variations,  and  the  same  might  be  said  of 
the  two  following  days.  Then  came  an  interval  of 


224    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

sleighing  and  skating.  Then  rain  turned  the  snow  to 
slush,  and  once  again  Beverly  exhibited  the  character- 
istics of  a  caged  tiger. 

"  I  shall  have  nervous  prostration  before  the  winter 
is  over,"  thought  Patience,  who  was  still  determined  to 
take  the  situation  humorously,  still  refused  to  face  her 
former  self.  "  I  do  wish  the  family  would  come  back, 
mother-in-law  and  all." 

Occasionally,  despite  Beverly's  indignant  protests,  she 
went  to  town  for  the  day,  and  shopped  or  paid  calls 
with  Hal.  On  one  occasion  they  went  to  see  Rosita. 
That  "  beautiful  young  prima  donna  of  ever  increasing 
popularity  "  wore  black  gauze  over  gold-coloured  tights, 
and  acted  and  sang  and  danced  and  allured  with 
consummate  art.  The  opera  house  was  two-thirds 
crowded  with  men,  although  there  was  the  usual  mati- 
nee contingent  of  girls  and  young  married  women. 

"Well,"  thought  Patience,  "she's  way  ahead  of 
me,  for  she  's  made  a  success  of  herself,  at  least,  and  is 
not  bothered  with  scruples  and  regrets." 

The  winter  dragged  along  as  slowly  as  if  time  had 
lamed  the  old  man,  then  fallen  asleep.  The  relations 
between  Patience  and  Beverly  became  very  strained. 
His  frequent  tempers  were  alternated  by  sulks.  He 
was  genuinely  unhappy,  for  limited  as  he  was,  mentally 
and  spiritually,  he  was  very  human ;  and  in  his  primitive 
way  he  loved  his  wife. 

Patience's  resolution  to  go  through  life  as  a  cynical 
humourist,  deaf  and  blind  to  the  great  wants  of  her 
nature,  died  hard,  but  it  died  at  last.  Monotony 
accentuated  fact,  and  the  time  came  when  pretence 
failed  her,  and  she  visibly  shrank  from  his  lightest 
caress.  The  tide  of  horror  and  loathing  had  risen 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    225, 

slowly,  but  definitely.  He  threatened  to  kill  her,  to 
commit  suicide,  to  get  a  divorce ;  but  his  threats  did 
not  disturb  her.  He  was  too  weak  to  kill  himself,  too 
proud  to  make  himself  ridiculous  in  the  divorce  courts, 
and  too  much  in  love  to  put  her  beyond  his  reach. 
What  sustained  her  was  the  hope  that  his  passion  would 
die  a  natural  death,  and  that  they  would  then  go  their 
diverse  ways  as  other  married  people  did,  —  that  had 
come  to  seem  to  her  the  most  blessed  meaning  of  the 
holy  state  of  matrimony.  Then  she  could  enjoy  her 
books,  and  he  would  permit  her  to  spend  the  winters 
in  New  York,  or  in  travel. 

Beverly's  affections,  however,  showed  no  sign  of  dis- 
solution. 


VI 


ONE  afternoon  in  March,  Patience,  glancing  out  of  the 
library  window,  saw  Hal  coming  up  the  lawn  from  the 
path  that  led  down  the  slope  to  the  station.  She  sup- 
pressed a  war-whoop  with  which  she  and  Rosita  had 
been  used  to  awake  the  echoes  of  the  Californian  hills, 
opened  the  window,  and  vaulted  out. 

"Well,"  cried  Miss  Peele,  as  Patience  ran  toward  her, 
"  you  do  look  glad  to  see  me,  sure  enough.  Bev  can't 
be  very  exciting,  for  you  don't  look  as  if  it  were  me 
particularly  —  just  somebody.  Oh,  matrimony  !  matri- 
mony !  I  envy  the  women  that  have  solved  the  problem 
in  some  other  way  —  the  journalists  and  artists,  and 
authors  and  actresses,  and  even  the  suffragists,  God  rest 
them.  Hello,  there  's  Bev.  He  looks  as  if  he  were 
about  to  cry.  What  have  you  been  doing  to  him?" 

15 


226    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  I  left  him  writing  an  order  for  some  new  kind  of 
horse-feed,"  said  Patience,  indifferently.  Her  husband 
stood  at  the  window,  staring  gloomily  at  the  beaming 
faces.  When  the  girls  entered  the  room  he  had  gone. 

"  He  looks  as  if  he  had  just  been  let  out  of  the  dark 
room.  Do  you  beat  him?  What  do  you  suppose  my 
mother  will  say?  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  he  's  bored  too.  You  see  it 's  nearly 
three  months  now.  I  tried  to  make  him  read,  but  after 
the  third  day  he  went  to  sleep." 

Hal  drew  a  low  chair  to  the  fire,  close  to  the  one 
Patience  occupied.  She  laughed  merrily. 

"  Fancy  your  trying  to  make  Bev  intellectual !  That 
would  be  a  good  subject  for  a  one- act  farce.  Well, 
I  Ve  come  up  here  to  tell  you  something,  and  to  talk  it 
over.  I,  too,  am  contemplating  matrimony." 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  cried  Patience. 

"  I  believe  that  is  usually  the  advice  of  married 
people,  but  the  world  goes  on  marrying  itself  just  the 
same.  But  my  problem  is  much  more  complicated 
than  the  average,  for  there  are  two  men  in  the  question." 

"Two?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  don't  know 
your  own  mind?" 

"  That  is  exactly  the  fact  in  the  case.  You  remem- 
ber Reginald  Wynne  ?  Well,  Patience,  I  do  like  that 
man.  I  never  liked  any  man  one  tenth  as  much.  I 
might  say  he  's  the  only  serious  man  I  've  ever  met,  the 
only  one,  to  put  it  in  another  way,  that  I  ever  could 
take  seriously  as  a  man.  He  has  brains  —  he  's  a 
lawyer,  you  know,  and  they  say  very  fine  things  of  him 
—  and  he  is  so  kind,  and  strong.  When  I  am  with 
him  I  don't  feel  frivolous  and  worldly  and  one  of  a 
dozen.  If  I  have  any  better  nature  and  any  apology 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    227 

for  a  brain,  they  are  on  top  then.  He  is  the  last  sort 
of  man  I  ever  thought  I  'd  fall  in  love  with,  but  it  takes 
us  some  years  to  become  acquainted  with  ourselves, 
does  n't  it  ?  I  do  respect  him  so,  and  it  is  such  a  novel 
sensation.  He  even  makes  me  read.  Fancy  !  And 
I  Ve  even  promised  him  that  I  won't  read  any  more 
French  novels,  excepting  those  he  selects,  nor  smoke 
cigarettes.  So,  you  see,  I  am  in  love. 

"  But,  Patience,"  she  continued  with  tragic  emphasis, 
"  he  has  n't  a  red  —  and  I  know  I  'd  be  miserable, 
poor.  When  papa  saw  which  way  the  wind  was  blowing, 
he  took  me  into  the  library  and  told  me  that  although  he 
made  fifty  thousand  dollars  a  year,  we  spent  nearly  all 
of  it,  and  that  he  should  not  have  much  to  leave  besides 
his  life  insurance  —  one  hundred  thousand  —  which  of 
course  would  go  to  mamma.  It  is  a  matter  of  honour 
never  to  sell  this  place,  and  the  revenue  from  the  farm 
—  which  is  to  go  to  Beverly  —  would  keep  it  up  in  a 
small  way.  The  town  house  is  to  be  May's  and  mine ; 
but  what  will  that  amount  to  ?  May  and  I  have  always 
pretty  well  understood  that  if  we  want  to  keep  on  hav- 
ing the  things  that  habit  has  made  a  necessity  to  us, 
we  must  marry  rich  men  !  Oh,  dear  !  Oh,  dear  !  " 

"Well,  the  other  man?" 

"  He  has  appeared  on  the  scene  lately.  He  is  not 
the  usual  alternative  by  any  means,  for  he  is  very  attrac- 
tive in  his  way.  He  has  the  manners  of  the  man  of 
the  world,  a  fin  de  siede  brain,  and  the  devil  in  his  eye. 
He  is  rather  good-looking  and  tremendously  good  form. 
And,  my  dear,  he  has  three  cold  millions.  Think  what 
I  should  be  with  three  millions  !  Fancy  me  in  Boston  on 
three  or  four  hundred  dollars  a  month.  Oh,  Patience} 
what  shall  I  do?"  And  Hal,  the  most  undemonstra- 


228    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

tive  of  women,  laid  her  head  on  Patience's  knee  and 
sobbed  bitterly. 

"  I  had  to  come  to  see  you,  Patience,"  she  continued 
after  a  moment.  "  I  have  no  one  else ;  I  could  never 
have  said  a  word  of  this  to  mamma  or  May.  And  I 
like  you  better  than  any  one  in  the  world  except  Regi- 
nald Wynne.  And  you  seem  to  understand  things. 
Do  tell  me  what  to  do." 

"  Do  this :  Be  true  to  your  ideals.  If  love  means, 
and  has  always  meant  more  to  you  than  anything  else 
in  the  world,  marry  Reginald  Wynne.  If  money  and 
power  and  luxury  are  the  very  essentials  of  happiness 
to  you,  marry  the  other  man.  No  temporary  aberra- 
tion can  permanently  divert  one's  paramount  want 
from  its  natural  course.  As  soon  as  the  novelty  has 
gone,  the  ego  swings  back  to  its  old  point  of  view  as 
surely  as  water  does  that  has  been  temporarily  dammed. 
There  is  only  one  thing  that  persists,  and  that  is  the 
ideal,  —  that  habit  of  mind  which  is  bred  of  heredity 
and  environment,  even  where  care  or  consciousness  is 
lacking.  It  is  as  relentless  and  pitiless  as  the  law  of 
cause  and  effect.  I  believe  it  would  outlive  a  very 
leprosy  of  the  soul.  And  it  makes  no  difference  whether 
that  ideal  be  great  or  small,  high  or  low,  its  hold  is 
precisely  the  same,  for  it  is  individuality  itself.  Rosita 
is  happy  because  she  has  realised  her  ideal.  Miss 
Tremont  was  happy  because  she  lived  up  to  hers.  Miss 
Beale  was  supremely  satisfied  with  herself  when  she  let 
a  man  die  whom  she  might  have  saved  by  smirching 
her  ideals.  The  religionists  are  happy  generally,  not 
through  communion  with  the  presiding  deity,  as  they 
imagine,  but  because  they  have  arbitrarily  created  a 
sort  of  spiritual  Blackstone  whom  they  delight  to  obey. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    229 

The  author  is  happy  when  he  toils,  even  without  hope 
of  reward.  Martyrs  have  known  ecstasy —  But  one 
could  go  on  for  a  week.  Don't  marry  Wynne  if  you 
feel  that  you  would  be  unhappy  in  poverty  after  the 
first  few  months;  and  if  you  feel  that  great  wealth 
without  love  would  be  misery,  don't  marry  the  other." 

"  Oh,  I  could  like  Latimer  Burr  well  enough,"  said 
Hal,  staring  gloomily  at  the  fire ;  "  and  after  a  time  I 
suppose  I  'd  forget.  You  see,  I  have  been  in  love  so 
short  a  time  that  the  wrench  would  be  a  good  deal  less 
violent  than  the  wrench  from  luxury  —  I'd  soon  get 
over  it,  I  expect.  But  I  do  like  him  —  I  never  thought 
I  could  feel  like  this." 

Patience  fondled  the  sleek  head,  but  she  was  not  in 
a  mood  to  feel  in  sympathy  with  love.  The  only  thing 
that  to  her  seemed  of  paramount  importance  was  to  fix 
a  clear  eye  on  the  future. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "the  present  is  ever  with  us, 
and  the  past  recedes  farther  and  farther.  If  the  rich 
man  can  give  you  what  you  most  want,  time  will  make 
you  forget  the  very  sensation  of  love.  If  you  marry 
Wynne  and  the  love  goes,  you  will  have  equal  diffi- 
culty to  recall  it,  and  nothing  to  compensate  in  the 
present." 

"  I  'm  not  afraid  that  it  would  go ;  but  I  know  that  I 
should  be  thoroughly  miserable  poor,  and  make  him 
miserable  too.  I  do  love  it  all  so  —  all  that  money 
means  —  why,  one  can't  even  be  well  groomed  without 
money.  It  has  gone  to  make  up  nine-tenths  of  my 
composition ;  the  other  tenth  is  only  a  bit  of  miser- 
able wax.  But  I  love  this  new  feeling,  and  I  never 
believed  that  anything  could  be  so  sweet.  Oh,  dear; 
I  '11  have  to  dry  up.  Here  comes  Bev." 


230    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Remember  this,"  said  Patience,  "  and  let  it  con- 
sole you :  however  you  feel  or  are  torn,  you  '11  do  one 
thing  only,  —  follow  along  the  line  of  least  resis- 
tance." 

Beverly  entered  and  kissed  his  sister  affectionately. 
Her  back  was  to  the  light,  and  he  did  not  notice  her 
swollen  eyes. 

"Well,  you  are  looking  hilarious,"  she  remarked  in 
her  usual  flippant  tones.  "  Has  Tammany  gone  lame, 
or  Mrs.  Langtry  refused  to  take  her  five  bars?  " 

"  My  wife  does  n't  love  me  !  "  Beverly  had  brooded 
upon  his  wrongs  for  two  months.  Hal's  words  were  as 
a  match  to  a  mine. 

"  Oh  ! "  exclaimed  Patience,  springing  to  her  feet, 
"  don't  let  us  have  a  scene  for  Hal's  benefit.  Do  cul- 
tivate a  little  good  taste,  if  good  sense  is  too  far  beyond 
you." 

Her  words  were  not  soothing,  and  Beverly  exploded 
in  one  of  his  most  violent  passions.  He  tore  up  and 
down  the  room,  banging  his  fist  alternately  on  the 
table,  the  mantel,  and  the  books,  and  once  he  hit 
the  panel  of  a  door  so  heavy  a  blow  that  it  sprang. 
Patience  sat  down  and  turned  her  back.  Hal  endeav- 
oured to  stop  him ;  but  he  had  found  a  listener,  and 
would  discharge  his  mind  of  its  accumulated  virus. 
He  told  the  tale  of  the  winter  in  spasmodic  gusts,  hung 
and  fringed  with  oaths.  Finally  he  flung  himself  out 
of  the  room,  shouting  all  the  way  across  the  hall. 

For  a  moment  there  was  an  intense  and  meaning 
silence  between  the  two  women ;  then  Hal  stood  up 
and  laid  her  palms  to  her  head. 

"  Patience  !  "  she  said,  "  Patience  !  this  is  awful. 
What  have  I  done  ?  Oh,  does  it  really  mean  anything  ? 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    231 

I  have  seen  Bev  go  into  tempers  all  my  life  —  but  — 
Tell  me,  please  —  does  this  really  mean  anything  —  " 

"  Whether  it  does  or  does  not  it  need  not  worry  you 
beyond  warning  you  against  mistakes  on  your  own 
account.  I  married  with  my  eyes  open,  and  I  can  take 
care  of  myself.  Don't  marry  your  rich  man  unless  you 
like  him  well  enough  to  pretend  to  like  him  a  good 
deal  more.  If  you  do,  you  '11  end  by  loathing  him  and 
yourself — and  what  is  more,  he  '11  know  it." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't  think  I  am  as  intense  as  you  are  — 
but  what  do  you  suppose  makes  Beverly  such  a  wild 
animal?  We  are  none  of  us  like  that,  and  never  have 
been,  as  far  as  I  know,  although  some  of  the  old  boys 
were  pretty  gay,  not  to  say  lawless.  But  for  two  or 
three  generations  we  seem  to  have  been  a  fairly  well- 
conducted  lot.  Beverly  is  almost  a  freak." 

Patience  crossed  the  room,  and  lifting  down  a  volume 
of  Darwin's  "  Descent  of  Man  "  read  from  the  chapter 
on  Civilised  Nations  :  — 

"  *  With  mankind  some  of  the  worst  dispositions  which 
occasionally,  without  any  assignable  cause,  make  their 
appearance  in  families,  may  perhaps  be  reversions  to  a 
savage  state  from  which  we  are  not  removed  by  very  many 
generations.' " 


VII 

Two  weeks  later  Patience  received  a  letter  from  Hal 
which  induced  no  surprise. 

The  die  is  cast  [it  read].  Reginald  Wynne  has  gone 
back  to  Boston,  and  I  am  going  to  marry  Latimer  Burr. 
On  the  first  of  April  we  sail  for  Europe  —  mamma  and 
May  and  I  —  to  get  our  things. 


232    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Don't  imagine  that  I  am  doing  the  novel-heroine  act, 
and  sprinkling  my  pillow  o'  nights.  I  did  feel  terribly,  and 
I  '11  never  love  any  other  man ;  but  the  thing  is  done,  and 
done  for  the  best,  and  that  is  the  end  of  it.  What  you  said 
about  following  along  the  line  of  least  resistance  is  as  sure 
as  love  and  fate  and  a  good  many  other  things ;  for  what 
Latimer  Burr  can  give  me  I  want  more  than  what  Regi- 
nald Wynne  can  give  me,  and  it  drew  me  like  a  magnet. 
And  the  other  thing  you  said  is  equally  true,  —  that  the 
only  joy  in  life  is  to  pursue  your  ideals  to  the  bitter  end. 
Mine  are  not  lofty,  but  they  are  me,  and  that  is  all  there  is 
to  it.  I  shall  not  weep  it  out,  because  I  Ve  no  beauty  to 
lose,  and  weeping  does  no  earthly  good,  anyway.  If  it 
would  give  Wynne  Burr's  fortune  I  'd  drown  New  York. 

We  '11  be  back  on  the  first  of  June.  We  're  only  going 
over  to  order  things.  I  wish  you  joy  of  Honora.  It's 
too  bad  Bev  is  so  much  in  love  with  you,  or  you  might 
switch  him  off  on  to  her.  Oh,  Patience,  dear,  you  don't 
know  how  much  I  Ve  thought  about  you.  It  hurts  me 
hard  to  think  that  you  are  unhappy.  I  feel  as  guilty  as  a 
murderer,  but  really  I  thought  you  'd  get  along.  So  many 
women  had  been  in  love  with  Bev,  I  thought  you  would  be, 
too.  I  don't  think  it  had  ever  occurred  to  me  that  women 
sometimes  had  a  soul.  If  I  had  known  as  much  then  as  I 
do  now  I  'd  have  done  all  I  could  to  keep  you  apart,  for 
Beverly  Peele  certainly  has  not  the  attenuated  ghost  of  a 
soul. 

But  Patience,  dear,  do  stand  it  out.  Don't,  don't  get 
a  divorce.  Remember  that  all  over  the  world  women  are 
as  miserable  as  you  are,  and  as  I  might  be  if  I  would 
let  myself  go.  Now,  at  least,  you  have  compensations ; 
and  when  I  am  married  I  '11  do  everything  I  can  to  make 
life  gay  and  pleasant  for  you ;  but  don't  make  a  horrid 
vulgar  newspaper  scandal  and  leave  yourself  without  re- 
sources. This  world  is  a  pretty  good  place  after  all  when 
you  are  on  top,  but  it  must  be  hell  underneath. 

Lovingly  HAL. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    233 


VIII 

THE  day  Mrs.  Peele  and  her  daughters  sailed  for 
France  Mr.  Peele  and  his  niece  returned  to  the  Manor. 
Honora  kissed  Patience  on  either  cheek. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  come  back  to  my  lovely  room, 
and  to  see  you,  Patience  dear,"  she  said  wearily.  "  We 
have  had  such  a  gay  winter,  and  I  am  so  tired.  Dear 
me,  how  fresh  and  sweet  you  look  in  that  white  frock. 
I  just  long  to  get  into  thin  things." 

When  Mr.  Peele  came  up  in  the  evening  he  narrowed 
his  lids  as  he  kissed  Patience,  and  regarded  her  criti- 
cally. "  Well,  how  does  Beverly  wear  in  a  three  months' 
tete-a-tete?  "  he  asked.  "  Gad  !  I  should  n't  care  to 
try  it." 

"  Oh,"  she  said  flushing,  "  we  did  n't  talk  much. 
He  had  the  farm  and  the  horses  to  attend  to,  you 
know,  and  I  had  the  library.  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you 
have  that  library." 

He  laughed  aloud,  with  the  harsh  notes  of  a  voice 
unused  to  such  music. 

"  I  see  you  have  had  a  Paul  and  Virginia  time,  as 
Hal  would  say.  I  'm  sorry  you  Ve  put  your  foot  in  it, 
for  even  you  can't  make  anything  of  him ;  but  make 
the  best  of  it.  Don't  leave  him  —  Hal  has  told  me 
something,  you  see.  It  was  best  that  she  should. 
There  must  be  no  scandal.  If  he  makes  too  great  a 
nuisance  of  himself  come  to  me;  and  if  he  cuts  off 
your  allowance  at  any  time  just  let  me  know,  and  I  '11 
see  that  you  have  all  the  money  you  want.  He  does  n't 


234    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

own  the  farm.  I  like  you.  You  're  a  clever  woman.  If 
you  'd  been  my  daughter  I  'd  have  been  proud  of  you." 

And  whether  he  really  found  pleasure  in  his  daugh- 
ter-in-law's society,  or  whether  he  merely  thought  it 
politic  to  lighten  her  burden,  from  that  time  until  the 
return  of  the  family  he  devoted  his  evenings  to  her. 
He  was  deeply  read,  and  Patience,  after  years  of  men- 
tal loneliness,  was  grateful  for  his  companionship,  al- 
though personally  he  antagonised  her.  He  was  a 
mentality  without  heart  or  soul,  and  she  knew  that  he 
would  sacrifice  her  as  readily  as  he  accepted  her  if  it 
better  suited  his  purpose. 

She  clung  to  Honora  during  the  day  and  read  aloud 
to  her  in  the  Tea  House,  while  that  devoted  young 
Catholic  embroidered  for  the  village  church  or  sewed 
for  the  poor  of  her  beloved  priest.  Father  O'Donovan, 
a  young  man  with  a  healthy  serious  face  and  a  clear 
eye,  frequently  joined  them.  Every  morning  the  girls 
rode  or  sailed.  Beverly  frequently  made  one  of  the 
party,  and  Patience  and  Honora  exercised  all  their 
tact  to  keep  him  in  good  humour.  In  the  evening  he 
played  duets  with  his  cousin.  Her  touch  was  as  light 
and  hollow  as  an  avalanche  of  icicles  from  the  roof, 
he  pounded  the  piano  as  if  it  were  a  prize  fighter's 
chest. 

One  evening  Patience  did  not  go  downstairs  until  a 
few  moments  before  dinner  was  announced.  As  she 
entered  the  library  she  saw  that  a  stranger  stood  at  the 
window  with  Mr.  Peele.  The  priest  was  present,  and 
she  shook  hands  with  him  before  going  over  to  greet 
the  stranger  and  her  father-in-law.  While  she  was 
agreeing  with  him  that  Honora  in  her  white  robe  and 
blue  sash  looked  exactly  like  an  angel,  the  man  at  the 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    235 

window  turned,  and  she  recognised  Mr.  Field.  She 
ran  forward  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Oh  !  Oh  !  "  she  cried.  "  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you 
again.  I  've  wanted  and  wanted  to." 

He  took  her  hand,  smiling,  but  regarded  her  with 
the  keen  gaze  she  so  well  remembered. 

"  Bless  my  soul,"  he  said,  "  but  you  have  changed. 
It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  you  have  improved. 
Even  the  freckles  have  gone,  I  see.  I  thought  I  was 
to  make  a  newspaper  woman  of  you.  I  felt  rather  cross 
when  you  married.  But  this  life  certainly  agrees  with 
you.  You  look  quite  the  grande  dame  —  quite  —  ah  ! 
Good  evening,  sir,"  as  Beverly  entered  and  was  pre- 
sented. Mr.  Field  darted  a  glance  from  one  to  the 
other,  his  mouth  twitching  sardonically. 

He  sat  at  Patience's  right  during  dinner,  and  they 
talked  constantly.  Beverly  was  sulky,  and  said  nothing. 
Mr.  Peele  rarely  talked  at  table,  even  to  Patience. 
Honora  and  the  priest  conversed  in  a  solemn  under- 
tone. It  is  doubtful  if  two  courses  had  been  served 
before  the  terrible  old  man  understood  the  situation. 

"  There  's  tragedy  brewing  here,"  he  thought,  grimly. 
"  That  fellow  has  the  temper  of  a  fiend  in  the  skull  of 
a  fool,  and  this  girl  is  not  the  compound  I  take  her  to 
be  if  she  lives  a  lie  very  long  for  the  sake  of  champagne 
and  truffles.  I  'd  give  a  good  deal  to  foresee  the  out- 
come. Unless  I  'm  all  wrong  there  '11  be  a  two  column 
story  on  the  first  page  of  the  '  Day '  some  fine  morn- 
ing. Well,  she  '11  have  its  support,  right  or  wrong. 
She  's  a  brick,  and  he  's  the  sort  of  fellow  a  man  always 
wants  to  kick. — What  is  that?"  he  asked  of  the 
priest,  who  had  begun  a  story  that  suddenly  appealed 
to  Mr.  Field's  editorial  instinct. 


236    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  A  physician  over  at  Mount  Vernon,  who  stands 
very  high  in  his  profession,  has  been  accused  of  poison- 
ing his  wife.  She  died  in  great  agony,  and  her  mother 
insisted  upon  a  post-mortem.  Her  stomach  was  full  of 
strychnine.  He  maintains  that  she  threatened  to  com- 
mit suicide  repeatedly,  and  that  he  is  innocent;  but 
opinion  is  against  him,  and  people  seem  to  think  that 
the  jury  will  convict  him.  I  knew  both,  and  I  feel 
positive  of  his  innocence." 

"Undoubtedly  he  is  innocent,"  said  Mr.  Field. 
"  No  physician  of  ordinary  cleverness  would  bungle 
like  that.  Strychnine  !  absurd  !  Why,  there  are  poi- 
sons known  to  all  physicians  and  chemists  which  abso- 
lutely defy  analysis.  I  don't  doubt  that  more  than  one 
doctor  has  put  his  wife  out  of  the  way,  and  the  world 
none  the  wiser." 

"  Is  that  true?  "  said  Patience,  eagerly,  leaning  for- 
ward. Her  curious  mind  leapt  at  any  new  fact.  "  What 
are  they  like  ?  " 

"  That  I  can't  say.  That  is  a  little  secret  known  to 
the  fraternity  only,  although  I  don't  doubt  they  give 
their  friends  the  benefit  of  their  knowledge  occasionally. 
Indubitably  a  large  proportion  of  murderers  are  never 
discovered  —  unless  they  discover  themselves,  like  the 
guilty  pair  in  <The>ese  Raquin.'  " 

"  Oh,  they  belonged  to  the  cruder  order  of  civi- 
lisation," said  Patience,  lightly.  "  I  am  sure  that  if 
I  committed  a  murder,  I  should  not  be  bothered  by 
conscience  if  I  had  felt  myself  justified  in  committing 
it.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  the  development  of  the 
intellect  means  anything  it  means  the  casting  out  of 
inherited  prejudices.  Of  course  I  don't  believe  in 
murder,"  she  continued,  carried  away  as  ever  by  the 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    237 

pleasure  of  abstract  reasoning,  "  but  if  a  man  of  the 
world  and  of  brains,  after  due  deliberation,  makes  way 
with  a  person  who  is  fatal  to  his  happiness  or  his 
career,  then  I  think  he  must  have  sufficient  develop- 
ment of  mental  muscle  to  scorn  remorse.  The  highest 
intelligences  are  anarchistic." 

"  Undoubtedly  there  are  those  that  have  reached 
that  point  of  civilisation,"  said  Mr.  Field,  "  but  for  my 
part,  I  have  not.  Although  I  keep  abreast  of  this 
extraordinary  generation,  my  roots  are  planted  pretty 
far  down  in  the  old  one.  But  assuredly  if  I  did  feel 
the  disposition  to  murder,  and  succumbed,  I  'd  cover 
up  my  tracks." 

"  Do  these  poisons  give  pain  ?  Are  they  mineral  or 
vegetable  ?  " 

As  Mr.  Field  was  about  to  answer,  a  peculiar  expres- 
sion crossed  his  face,  and  Patience,  following  his  eyes, 
looked  at  Beverly.  Her  husband  was  staring  at  her 
with  his  heavy  brows  together,  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
drawn  down  in  an  ugly  sneer.  To  her  horror  and  dis- 
gust she  felt  the  blood  fly  to  her  hair.  At  the  same 
time  she  became  conscious  that  Mr.  Peele,  the  priest, 
and  Honora  were  exchanging  glances  of  surprise. 
Beverly  gave  an  abrupt  unpleasant  laugh,  and  pushing 
his  chair  violently  back,  left  the  room.  Patience 
glanced  appealingly  about,  then  dropped  her  glance 
to  her  plate.  She  felt  as  if  the  floor  were  dissolving 
beneath  her  feet. 


238    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 


IX 


A  WEEK  later,  after  a  pleasant  morning  in  the  Tea 
House  with  Honora  and  Father  O'Donovan,  she  left 
it  to  go  to  the  library.  As  she  turned  the  corner  of  the 
house  she  saw  Beverly  standing  close  to  one  of  the 
windows. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  "  she  asked  in  surprise. 

His  brows  were  lowered  and  his  skin  looked  black,  as 
it  always  did  when  his  angry  passions  were  risen. 

"  I  Ve  been  watching  you  and  that  priest,"  he  said 
savagely,  following  her  as  she  retreated  hastily  out  of 
earshot  of  the  people  in  the  Tea  House.  "  I  saw  you 
exchanging  glances  with  him  !  Now  I  know  why  you 
want  to  know  so  much  about  poisons  —  " 

"Are  you  insane?"  she  cried.  "What  on  earth  are 
you  talking  about?" 

"  No,  I  'm  not  insane  —  by  God  !  You  're  in  love  with 
that  priest,  and  I  know  it.  But  I  'm  on  the  watch  —  " 

"Oh,  —  you  —  you  —  "  stammered  Patience.  She 
could  not  speak.  Her  face  was  crimson  with  anger  and 
disgust.  In  her  husband's  eyes  she  was  an  image  of 
guilt.  He  burst  into  a  sneering  laugh. 

"You  think  I 'm  a  fool,  I  suppose,  because  I  don't 
know  anything  about  books.  But  a  woman  said  once 
that  I  had  the  instincts  of  the  devil,  and  I  Ve  no  idea 
of—" 

Patience  found  her  tongue.  "  You  poor  fool,"  she 
said.  "  It  was  ridiculous  of  me  to  pay  any  attention 
whatever  to  you ;  but  I  am  not  used  to  being  insulted, 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    239 

even  by  you.  And  remember  that  I  am  not  used  to  any 
display  of  imagination  in  you.  As  for  love  —  "  the  scorn 
with  which  she  uttered  the  word  made  even  him  wince 
—  "  do  not  worry.  You  have  made  me  loathe  the  thing. 
I  could  not  fall  in  love  with  a  god.  Don't  have  the 
least  fear  that  I  shall  be  unfaithful  to  you.%  I  could  n't ! " 
>,  She  walked  away,  leaving  Beverly  trembling  and 
speechless.  When  she  reached  her  room  she  locked 
the  doors  and  sobbed  wildly. 

"Oh,  what  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?"  she 
thought.  "I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  I  believe  I 
really  would  kill  him  if  I  stayed.  I  feel  as  if  my  nature 
were  in  ruins.  I  hate  myself !  I  loathe  myself !  I  '11 
leave  this  very  day  ! " 

But  she  had  said  the  same  thing  many  times.  Why 
does  a  woman  hesitate  long  before  she  leaves  the  man 
who  has  made  life  shocking  to  her?  Indolence,  ab- 
horrence of  scandal,  shame  to  confess  that  she  has 
made  a  failure  of  her  life,  above  all,  lack  of  private 
fortune  and  the  uncertainty  of  self-support.  For  what- 
ever the  so-called  advanced  woman  may  preach,  woman 
has  in  her  the  instinct  of  dependence  on  man,  trans- 
mitted through  the  ages,  and  a  sexual  horror  of  the 
arena.  Patience  let  the  days  slip  by,  hoping,  as  women 
will,  that  the  problem  would  solve  itself,  that  Beverly 
Peele  would  die,  or  become  indifferent,  or  that  she 
would  drift  naturally  into  some  other  sphere. 


240    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 


MRS.  PEELE  and  the  girls  returned  with  the  June  roses ; 
the  house  was  filled  with  guests  at  once.  The  Cuban 
had  gone  to  his  islands  for  the  summer,  and  May 
chose  to  wear  the  willow  and  occasionally  to  weep  upon 
Patience's  unsympathetic  shoulder;  but  as  frequently 
she  consoled  herself  with  the  transient  flirtation.  Hal, 
apparently,  was  her  old  gay  self.  She  did  not  mention 
Wynne's  name,  and  Patience  was  equally  reticent. 

"  I  should  be  the  last  to  remind  any  woman  of  what 
she  wished  to  forget,"  she  thought.  "  And  love  —  what 
does  it  amount  to  anyhow?  If  He  came  I  believe  I 
should  hate  him,  because  once  I  felt  something  like 
passion  for  him  too." 

She  had  looked  forward  with  some  curiosity  to  meet- 
ing Latimer  Burr.  He  also  had  been  in  Paris.  He 
followed  his  lady  home  on  the  next  steamer,  and  im- 
mediately upon  his  return  came  to  Peele  Manor. 
Patience  did  not  meet  him  until  dinner.  She  sat  beside 
him,  and  at  once  became  acutely  aware  that  he  was  a 
man  of  superlative  physical  magnetism.  She  proscribed 
him  accordingly  —  magnetism  was  a  repellent  force  at 
this  stage  of  her  development.  She  was  rather  surprised 
that  she  could  feel  it  again,  so  completely  had  Beverly's 
evaporated. 

Burr  was  a  tall  heavily  built  man  about  forty  years 
old.  He  carried  himself  and  wore  his  clothes  as  only 
a  New  York  man  can.  His  face  was  florid  and  well 
modelled,  his  mouth  and  half  closed  eyes  sensual.  But 
his  voice  and  manners  were  charming.  He  appeared 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    241 

to  be  deeply  in  love  with  Hal,  and  his  voice  became  a 
caress  when  he  spoke  to  her.  Patience  did  not  like 
his  type,  but  she  forgave  him  individually  because  he 
was  fond  of  Hal  and  appeared  to  possess  brains. 

She  fell  into  conversation  with  him,  and  his  manner 
would  have  led  her  to  believe  that  while  she  spoke 
neither  Hal  nor  any  other  woman  existed.  To  this 
Patience  gave  little  attention  :  she  had  met  that  manner 
before ;  it  was  pleasant,  and  she  missed  it  when  lack- 
ing ;  but  she  had  practised  it  too  often  herself  to  feel 
more  than  its  passing  fascination.  His  eyes,  how- 
ever, were  more  insistently  eloquent  than  his  manner, 
and  their  eloquence  was  of  the  order  that  induced 
discomposure. 

Patience  at  times  looked  very  lovely,  and  she  was  at 
her  best  to-night.  Her  white  skin  was  almost  trans- 
parent, and  the  wine  had  touched  her  cheeks  with 
pink.  The  sadness  of  her  spirit  had  softened  her  eyes. 
Her  gown  of  peacock  blue  gauze  fitted  her  round  elastic 
figure  very  firmly,  and  her  bare  throat  and  neck  and 
arms  were  statuesque.  She  had  by  no  means  the  young 
married  woman  look,  but  she  had  some  time  since  ac- 
quired an  "  air, "  much  to  Hal's  satisfaction.  To  all 
appearances  she  was  a  girl,  but  her  figure  was  womanly. 
Although  about  five  feet  six,  and  built  on  a  more  gener- 
ous plan  than  the  average  New  York  woman,  she  walked 
with  all  their  spring  and  lightness  of  foot.  Her  round 
waist  looked  smaller  than  it  was;  she  never  laced. 
Lately  she  had  discovered  that  she  "  had  an  arm,"  as 
Hal  would  have  phrased  it,  and  the  discovery  had  given 
her  such  satisfaction  that  she  had  forgotten  her  troubles 
for  the  hour,  and  sent  for  a  dressmaker  to  take  the 
sleeves  out  of  her  evening  gowns. 
16 


242    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Mr.  Burr  also  discovered  it,  and  murmured  his  ap- 
proval as  caressingly  as  were  he  addressing  his  pro- 
spective bride. 

"The  milk-white  woman!"  he  ejaculated  softly. 
"The  milk-white  woman  !  " 

"Can't  you  get  any  farther?  "  asked  Patience.  "  If 
you  were  a  poet  now,  that  would  make  a  good  first 
line  for  a  rhapsody  —  to  Hal,  for  instance." 

He  laughed  indulgently.  "  How  awfully  bright  you 
are.  I  am  afraid  of  you."  But  he  did  not  look  in  the 
least  afraid.  "You  are  to  be  my  sister,  you  know. 
We  must  become  friends  at  once." 

"  And  flattery  is  the  quickest  and  surest  way  of  es- 
tablishing the  fraternal  relation?  Well,  you  are  quite 
right ;  but  just  look  at  my  hair  for  a  change,  will  you?  " 
(She  felt  as  if  her  skin  must  be  covered  with  red  spots.) 
"  Or  my  profile.  They  are  also  good  points." 

"  They  are  exquisite.  I  have  rarely  seen  a  woman  so 
beautiful." 

"  Dear  !  Dear  !  How  relieved  you  must  be  to  feel 
that  you  can  keep  your  hand  in  without  straying  too  far 
from  Peele  Manor.  And  there  is  also  Honora." 

"  I  don't  admire  Miss  Mairs.  She  is  too  tall,  and  her 
nose  is  too  long." 

"  Poor  dear  Honora  !  But  how  well  you  understand 
women  !  What  tact !  I  like  you  so  much  better  than 
I  did  before." 

He  laughed  again  in  his  indulgent  way.  "You 
must  n't  guy  me.  It  is  your  fault  if  I  pay  you  too  many 
compliments.  You  are  a  very  fascinating  woman." 

"  You  are  wonderfully  entertaining.  What  must  you 
be  when  you  are  in  love  !  What  do  you  and  Hal  talk 
about?" 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    243 

"Isn't  Hal  a  dear  little  girl?  I  do  love  her.  I 
never  loved  a  woman  so  much  in  my  life  —  never  pro- 
posed before.  She  is  so  bright.  She  keeps  me  amused 
all  the  time.  I  always  said  I  'd  never  marry  a  woman 
that  did  n't  amuse  me,  and  I  've  kept  my  word.  It 
is  n't  so  much  what  she  says,  don't  you  know,  as  the 
way  she  says  it.  Dear  little  girl !  " 

On  this  subject  they  could  agree,  and  Patience  kept 
him  to  it  as  long  as  possible. 

After  dinner  Burr  went  with  Mr.  Peele  into  the 
library.  Patience,  passing  through  the  room,  found 
them  talking  earnestly  upon  the  great  question  of  the 
day,  —  the  financial  future  of  the  country.  She  paused 
a  moment,  then  sat  down.  To  her  surprise  she  found 
that  Burr  was  master  of  his  subject,  and  possessed  of  a 
gift  of  words  which  fell  little  short  of  eloquence. 

The  argument  lasted  an  hour,  during  which  Patience 
sat  with  her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  chin  on  her  folded 
hands,  her  eager  eyes  glancing  from  one  to  the  other. 
Occasionally  she  smiled  responsively  as  Burr  made 
some  felicitous  phrase.  When  the  discussion  was  over, 
Mr.  Peele  left  the  room.  Burr  arose  at  once  and 
seated  himself  beside  her. 

" I  never  talked  so  well,"  he  said.  "You  inspired 
me ;  "  and  he  took  her  hand  in  the  matter-of-fact  man- 
ner she  knew  so  well. 

"  You  talked  quite  as  well  before  you  saw  me  —  " 

"  I  knew  you  were  there  —  " 

"  Kindly  let  me  have  my  hand.    I  have  only  two  —  " 

"  Nonsense  !  Let  me  hold  your  hand.  I  want  to  ! 
I  am  going  to  —  Why  are  you  —  " 

"  Have  n't  you  Hal's  hand  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  God  !   You  don't  expect  me  to  go  through 


244    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

life  holding  one  woman's  hand  ?  Hal  is  the  most  fas- 
cinating woman  in  the  world,  and  I  love  her  —  but  I 
want  you  to  let  me  love  you,  too." 

"  It  is  quite  immaterial  to  me  whether  you  love  me 
or  not;  and,  I  think,  if  you  want  plain  English,  that 
you  are  a  scoundrel." 

"  Oh,  come,  come.  You  — you  —  must  know  more 
of  the  world  than  to  talk  like  that.  Why  am  I  a  scoun- 
drel?" He  looked  much  amused. 

"  You  are  engaged  to  one  woman  and  are  making 
love  to  another." 

"  Well,  what  of  that  so  long  as  she  does  n't  know  it  ? 
I  shall  be  the  most  uxorious  and  indulgent  of  husbands 
—  but  faithful —  that  is  not  to  be  expected." 

"  You  must  have  great  confidence  in  me.  Suppose  I 
describe  this  scene  and  conversation  to  Hal?  " 

"  You  will  not,  —  not  out  of  regard  for  me,  but  because 
you  love  Hal  —  dear  little  girl !  And  you  are  one  of 
the  few  women  devoid  of  the  cat  instincts.  That  long- 
legged  girl,  now,  has  a  whole  tiger  inside  of  her,  but 
you  have  only  the  faults  of  the  big  woman.  I  hope 
you  have  their  weaknesses." 

"  Well,  you  shall  never  know  if  I  have.  Please  let  go 
my  hand." 

He  flung  it  from  him.  "  Oh,  well,"  he  said,  haughtily, 
"  I  hoped  we  should  be  friends,  but  if  you  will  have  it 
otherwise,  so  be  it ;  "  and  he  stalked  out,  and  devoted 
himself  to  Hal  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    245 


XI 


"  FUNNY  world,"  thought  Patience.  She  shrugged  her 
beautiful  young  shoulders  cynically,  and  went  forth  to 
do  her  duty  by  the  guests.  As  she  passed  out  of  the 
front  door  to  join  some  one  of  the  scattered  groups  on 
the  lawns,  she  heard  a  voice  which  made  her  pause  and 
tap  her  forehead  with  her  ringer.  It  was  a  rich  deep 
voice,  with  a  vibration  in  it,  and  a  light  suggestion  of 
brogue.  She  turned  to  the  drawing-room,  whence  it 
came.  A  man  in  riding  clothes  was  talking  to  Mrs. 
Peele,  who  was  listening  with  a  bend  of  the  head  that 
meant  much  to  Patience's  trained  eye.  The  man  had 
an  athletic  nervous  figure,  suggestive  of  great  virility 
and  suppressed  force,  although  it  was  carried  with  a  fine 
repose.  The  thick  black  hair  on  his  large  finely  shaped 
head  glinted  here  and  there  with  silver.  His  profile 
was  aquiline,  delicately  cut  and  very  strong,  his  mouth, 
under^  the  slight  moustache,  neither  full  nor  thin,  and 
both  mobile  and  firm,  the  lips  beautifully  cut.  The 
eyes,  deeply  set,  were  not  large,  and  were  of  an  indefinite 
blue  grey,  but  piercing,  restless,  kind,  and  humourous. 
There  were  lines  about  them,  and  a  deep  line  on  one 
side  of  his  mouth.  His  lean  face  had  a  touch  of  red 
on  its  olive.  He  might  have  been  anywhere  between 
thirty-five  and  forty. 

Patience  recognised  him  and  trembled  a  little,  but 
with  excitement,  not  passion.  She  had  understood  her- 
self for  once  when  she  had  said  that  in  her  present 
conditions  she  was  incapable  of  love.  Beverly  Peele 
would  have  to  go  down  among  the  memories  before  his 


246    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

wife  could  shake  her  spirit  free,  and  turn  with  swept 
brain  and  clear  eyes  to  even  a  conception  of  the  love 
whose  possibilities  dwelt  within  her. 

But  she  was  fully  alive  to  the  picturesqueness  of 
meeting  this  man  once  more,  and  suddenly  became 
possessed  of  the  spirit  of  adventure.  There  must  be 
some  sort  of  sequel  to  that  old  romance. 

She  withdrew  to  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  where  she 
could  watch  the  drawing-room  through  the  window. 
Burr  entered,  slapped  the  visitor  on  the  back,  and  bore 
him  away  to  the  dining-room,  presumably  to  have  a 
drink.  When  they  returned,  Mr.  Peele  was  in  the  room. 
He  shook  hands  with  the  stranger  more  heartily  than 
was  his  wont.  In  a  few  moments  he  crossed  over  to  the 
library,  and  Patience,  seeing  that  her  early  hero  would 
be  held  in  conversation  for  some  time  to  come,  followed 
her  father-in-law  and  asked  casually  who  the  visitor  was. 

"Oh,  that 's  Bourke,  Garan  Bourke,  the  legal  idol," 
sarcastically,  "  of  Westchester  County.  In  truth  he  's  a 
brilliant  lawyer  enough,  and  one  of  the  rising  men  at 
the  New  York  bar,  although  he  will  go  off  his  head 
occasionally  and  take  criminal  cases.  I  don't  forgive 
him  that,  if  he  is  always  successful.  However,  we  all 
have  our  little  fads.  I  suppose  he  can't  resist  showing 
his  power  over  a  jury.  I  heard  an  enthusiastic  young- 
ster assert  the  other  day  that  Bourke  whips  up  a  jury's 
grey  matter  into  one  large  palpitating  batter,  then 
moulds  it  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers  while  the  jury  sits 
with  mouth  open  and  spinal  marrow  paralysed.  Per- 
sonally, I  like  him  well  enough,  and  rather  hoped  he 
and  Hal  would  fancy  each  other.  But  he  does  n't  seem 
to  be  a  marrying  man.  You  'd  better  go  over  and  meet 
him.  He  '11  just  suit  you." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    247 

Patience  returned  to  her  post.  Burr  had  disappeared, 
Bourke  was  talking  to  half  a  dozen  women.  In  a  few 
moments  he  rose  to  go.  Patience  went  hastily  across 
the  lawns  to  the  narrow  avenue  of  elms  by  the  driveway. 
No  two  were  billing  and  cooing  in  its  shadows,  and 
Beverly  was  in  bed  with  a  nervous'  headache. 

The  moon  was  large  and  very  brilliant.  One  could 
have  read  a  newspaper  as  facilely  as  by  the  light  of  an 
electric  pear.  As  Bourke  rode  to  the  main  avenue  a 
woman  came  toward  him.  He  had  time  to  think  her 
very  beautiful  and  of  exceeding  grace  before  she  sur- 
prised him  by  laying  her  hand  on  his  horse's  neck. 

"Well?"  she  said,  looking  up  and  smiling  as  he 
reined  in. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  stammered,  lifting  his  hat. 

"  I  am  too  heavy  to  ride  before  you  now." 

He  stared  at  her  perplexedly,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  Still  if  I  were  up  a  tree  —  literally,  you  know  — 
and  a  band  of  terrible  demons  were  shouting  at  a  man 
beside  a  corpse  —  " 

"What? "he  said.  "Not  you?  —  not  you?  That 
homely  fascinating  little  girl  —  no,  it  cannot  be  pos- 
sible—" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  lifting  her  chin,  coquettishly.  "  I  have 
improved,  and  grown,  you  see.  I  was  more  than  de- 
lighted when  I  saw  you  through  the  window.  It  was 
rather  absurd,  but  I  disliked  the  idea  of  going  in  to 
meet  you  conventionally  —  " 

He  laid  his  hand  strongly  on  hers,  and  she  treated 
him  with  a  passivity  denied  to  Latimer  Burr. 

"  I  am  going  to  tie  up  my  horse  and  talk  to  you  a 
while,  may  I  ?  "  America  and  the  law  had  not  crowded 
all  the  romance  out  of  his  Irish  brain,  and  he  was  keenly 


248    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

alive  to  the  adventure.  He  had  forgotten  her  name 
long  since,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  this  lovely 
impulsive  girl  was  the  property  of  another  man ;  but 
although  he  had  lived  too  long,  nor  yet  long  enough, 
to  lose  his  heart  to  the  first  flash  of  magnetism  from 
a  pretty  woman,  yet  his  blood  was  thrilled  by  the  com- 
mingling of  spirituality  and  deviltry  in  the  face  of  this 
high-bred  girl  who  cared  to  give  the  flavour  of  romance 
to  their  acquaintance.  He  saw  that  she  was  clever,  and 
he  had  no  intention  of  making  a  fool  of  himself;  but 
he  was  quite  willing  to  follow  whither  she  cared  to  lead. 
And  it  was  night  and  the  moon  was  high ;  the  leaves 
sang  in  a  crystal  sea ;  a  creek  murmured  somewhere ; 
the  frogs  chanted  their  monotonous  recitative  to  the 
hushed  melodies  and  discords  of  the  night  world ;  the 
deep  throbbing  of  steamboats  came  from  the  river. 

He  tied  his  horse  to  a  tree,  and  they  entered  the 
avenue. 

"You  told  me  that  it  was  a  small  world,  and  that 
we  should  probably  meet  again,"  she  said ;  "  and  I  never 
doubted  that  we  should." 

"  Oh,  I  never  did  either,"  he  exclaimed.  He  was 
racking  his  brains  to  recall  the  conversation  which  had 
passed  between  them  a  half  dozen  years  ago,  and  for 
the  life  of  him  could  not  remember  a  word ;  but  he 
was  a  man  of  resource. 

"I  am  glad  that  it  is  at  night,"  he  continued,  "  even 
if  the  scene  is  not  so  charming  as  Carmel  Valley  from 
that  old  tower.  How  beautiful  the  ocean  looked  from 
there,  and  what  a  jolly  ride  we  had  in  the  pine 
woods ! " 

She  understood  perfectly,  and  grinned  in  the  dark. 

"Ah  !  I  remember  I  gave  you  some  advice,"  he  ex- 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    249 

claimed  with  suspicious  abruptness.  "  I  thought  after- 
ward that  it  was  great  presumption  on  my  part." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  had  an  ideal  of  your  own  in  mind 
when  you  spoke  ?  " 

"An  ideal?"  He  cursed  his  memory  and  floun- 
dered hopelessly.  Even  his  Irish  wit  for  once  deserted 
him. 

"Oh,  I  hoped  you  had  not  forgotten  it.  Why,  I 
have  made  a  little  '  Night  Thoughts  '  of  what  you  said, 
and  it  has  been  one  of  the  strongest  forces  in  my  de- 
velopment. Shall  I  repeat  it  to  you?  " 

"  Oh,  please."  He  was  blushing  with  pleasure,  but 
sore  perplexed. 

And  she  repeated  his  comments  and  advice,  word 
for  word. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  remember  all  that  ?  I  am 
deeply  flattered."  And  he  was,  in  fact. 

"What  more  natural  than  that  I  should  remember? 
I  was  a  lonely  little  waif,  full  of  dreams  and  vague 
ideals,  and  with  much  that  was  terrible  in  my  actual 
life.  I  had  never  talked  with  a  young  man  before  — 
a  man  of  seventy  was  my  only  experience  of  your  sex, 
barring  boys,  that  don't  count.  And  you  swooped 
down  into  my  life  in  the  most  picturesque  manner 
possible,  and  talked  as  no  one  in  my  little  world  was 
capable  of  talking.  So,  you  see,  it  is  not  so  remarkable 
that  I  retain  a  vivid  impression  of  you  and  your  words. 
I  was  frightfully  in  love  with  you." 

"  Oh  —  were  you  ?  Were  you  ?  "  He  was  very  much 
at  sea.  It  was  true  that  she  had  paid  him  the  most 
subtle  tribute  one  mind  can  pay  to  another,  but  her 
very  audacity  would  go  to  prove  that  she  was  a  brilliant 
coquette.  He  had  a  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  and 


250    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

he  was  still  a  little  afraid  of  her.  He  took  refuge  on 
the  broad  impersonal  shore  of  flirtation,  where  the  boat 
is  ever  dancing  on  the  waves. 

"  If  you  felt  obliged  to  use  the  past  tense  you  might 
have  left  that  last  unsaid." 

"  Oh,  there  are  a  thousand  years  between  fifteen 
and  twenty-one.  I  am  quite  another  person,  as  you 
see." 

"  You  are  merely  an  extraordinary  child  developed ; 
and  you  have  carried  your  memory  along  with  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  memory  is  there,  and  the  tablets  are 
pretty  full ;  but  never  mind  me.  I  want  to  know  if  your 
ideals  are  as  strong  now  as  I  am  sure  they  were  then 
—  if  any  one  in  this  world  manages  to  hold  onto  his 
ideals  when  circumstances  don't  happen  to  coddle 
them." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  afraid  I  have  n't 
thought  much  about  them  since  that  night.  I  doubt 
if  I  'd  given  too  much  thought  to  them  before.  Deep 
in  every  man's  brain  is  an  ideal  of  some  sort,  I  imagine, 
but  it  is  seldom  he  sits  down  and  analyses  it  out.  He 
knows  when  he  's  missed  it  and  locked  the  gates  be- 
hind him,  and  perhaps,  occasionally,  he  knows  when 
he  's  found  it  —  or  something  approximating  it.  We 
are  all  the  victims  of  that  terrible  thing  called  Imagina- 
tion, which,  I  sometimes  think,  is  the  sudden  incursion 
of  a  satirical  Deity.  I  have  not  married  —  why,  I  can 
hardly  say.  Perhaps  because  there  has  been  some 
vague  idea  that  if  I  waited  long  enough  I  might  meet 
the  one  woman ;  but  partly,  also,  because  I  have  had 
no  very  great  desire  to  marry.  I  keep  bachelor's  hall 
over  on  the  Sound,  and  the  life  is  very  jolly  and  free  of 
small  domestic  details.  There  are  so  many  women 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    251 

that  give  you  almost  everything  you  want —  or  at  least 
four  or  five  will  make  up  a  very  good  whole  —  that  I 
have  never  yet  faced  the  tremendous  proposition  of 
going  through  life  expecting  one  woman  to  give  me 
everything  my  nature  and  mind  demand.  But  there 
are  such  women,  I  imagine,"  he  added  abruptly,  trying 
to  see  her  face  in  one  of  the  occasional  splashes  of 
moonlight. 

"  A  very  clever  woman  —  Mrs.  Lafarge  ;  perhaps  you 
know  her  —  said  to  me  the  other  day,  that  many  men 
and  women  of  strong  affinity  took  a  good  deal  of  spir- 
ituality with  them  into  marriage,  but  soon  forgot  all 
about  it  —  matrimony  is  so  full  of  reiterant  details,  and 
everything  becomes  so  matter  of  course.  Do  you  think 
that  is  true?" 

"I  am  afraid  it  is.  The  imagination  wears  blunt. 
The  Deity  is  sending  his  electricity  elsewhere  —  to 
those  still  prowling  about  the  shores  of  the  unknown. 
Perhaps  if  one  could  keep  the  danger  in  mind  —  if  one 
were  unusually  clever  —  I  don't  know.  I  fancy  civili- 
sation will  get  to  that  point  after  a  while.  Unquestion- 
ably the  companionship  of  man  and  woman,  when  no 
essentials  are  lacking,  is  the  one  supremely  satisfying 
thing  in  life.  If  we  loved  each  other,  for  instance  —  on 
such  a  night  —  it  seems  to  me  that  we  are  in  tune  —  " 

"  But  we  don't  love  each  other,  as  it  happens,  and 
we  met  about  three  quarters  of  an  hour  ago.  We  '11 
probably  hate  each  other  by  daylight." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not,"  he  said,  accepting  the  ice-water. 
"  But  tell  me  what  your  ideals  were.  I  hope  they  have 
proved  more  stable  than  mine." 

"  Oh,  mine  were  a  sort  of  yearning  for  some  unseen 
force  in  nature ;  I  suppose  the  large  general  force  from 


252    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

which  love  is  a  projection.  Every  mortal,  except  the 
purely  material,  the  Beverly  Peele  type,  for  instance, 
has  an  affinity  with  something  in  the  invisible  world, 
an  uplifting  of  the  soul.  Christianity  satisfies  the  great 
mass,  hence  its  extraordinary  hold.  Do  you  suppose 
the  real  link  between  the  soul  of  man  and  the  soul 
of  nature  will  ever  be  established?" 

He  laughed  a  little,  piqued,  but  amused.  "  You  are 
very  clever,"  he  said,  "and  this  is  just  the  hour  and 
these  are  just  the  circumstances  for  impersonal  abstrac- 
tions. Well  —  perhaps  the  link  will  be  established 
when  we  have  lived  down  this  civilisation  and  entered 
upon  another  which  has  had  drilled  out  of  it  all  the 
elements  which  plant  in  human  nature  the  instincts  of 
cupidity  and  sordidness  and  envy  and  political  corrup- 
tion, and  all  that  goes  to  make  us  the  aliens  from  nature 
that  we  are.  About  all  that  keeps  us  in  touch  with  her 
now  are  our  large  vices.  There  is  some  tremendous 
spiritual  force  in  the  Universe  which  projects  itself  into 
us,  making  man  and  nature  correlative.  What  wonder 
that  man  —  particularly  an  imaginative  and  intelligent 
child  —  should  be  affected  and  played  upon  by  this 
Mystery?  What  wonder  that  the  heathens  have  gods, 
and  the  civilised  a  symbol  called  the  Lord  God  ?  —  a 
concrete  something  which  they  can  worship,  and  upon 
which  unburden  the  load  of  spirituality  which  becomes 
oppressive  to  matter?  It  is  for  the  same  reason  that 
women  fall  in  love  and  marry  earlier  than  men,  who 
have  so  many  safety-valves.  On  the  other  hand,  men 
who  have  a  great  deal  of  emotional  imagination  and 
who  can  neither  love  nor  accept  religion  take  refuge 
in  excess.  It  is  all  a  matter  of  temperament.  Cold- 
blooded people  —  those  that  have  received  a  meagre 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    253 

share  of  this  great  vital  force  pervading  the  Universe, 
which  throws  a  continent  into  convulsions  or  a  human 
being  into  ecstasy  —  such,  for  instance,  are  religious 
only  because  their  ancestors  were,  —  their  brain  is 
pointed  that  way.  Their  blood  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it,  as  is  the  more  general  case  —  for  Christianity 
is  pre-eminently  sensuous." 

"  What  do  you  suppose  will  take  its  place  ?  The  world 
is  bound  to  become  wholly  civilised  in  time ;  but  still 
human  nature  will  demand  some  sort  of  religion  (which 
is  another  word  for  ideality),  some  sort  of  lodestar." 

"A  superlative  refinement,  I  think;  a  perfected 
sestheticism  which  shall  by  no  means  eradicate  the  strong 
primal  impulses ;  which  shall,  in  fact,  create  conditions 
of  higher  happiness  than  now  exist.  Do  we  not  enjoy 
all  arts  the  more  as  they  approach  perfection?  Does 
not  a  nude  appeal  with  more  subtle  strength  to  the 
senses  the  more  exquisite  its  beauty,  the  more  entire 
its  freedom  from  coarseness?  When  people  strive  to 
place  human  nature  on  a  level  with  what  is  highest  in 
art  and  in  nature  itself,  the  true  religion  will  have  been 
discovered.  So  far,  man  himself  is  infinitely  below 
what  man  has  achieved.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that 
genius  is  the  result  of  any  possible  combination  of 
heredity.  It  would  seem  that  it  must,  like  its  other 
part,  imagination,  be  the  direct  and  more  permanent 
indwelling  of  the  supreme  creative  force  —  as  if  the 
creator  would  lighten  his  burden  occasionally,  and 
shakes  off  rings  which  float  down  to  torment  favoured 
brains." 

"  I  always  knew  that  I  should  love  to  hear  you  talk," 
murmured  Patience. 

His  hand  closed  over  hers.     He  drew  it  through  his 


254    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

arm  and  held  it  against  his  heart,  which  was  beating 
irregularly. 

"  And  I  have  n't  talked  so  much  nor  such  stuff  to 
a  woman  since  God  made  me.  I  believe  that  I  could 
talk  to  you  through  twenty  years.  You  have  said 
enough  to-night  to  make  me  hope  that  our  minds 
have  been  running  along  the  same  general  lines. 
Tell  me  —  honestly  —  no  coquetry  —  has  what  I  said 
that  night  had  the  slightest  effect  in  your  develop- 
ment?" 

She  told  the  tale  of  the  day  in  the  crystal  woods, 
giving  a  sufficiently  comprehensive  sketch  of  the  events 
which  had  led  up  to  it  to  make  her  the  more  keenly 
interesting  to  the  man  whose  brain  was  beginning  to 
whirl  a  little. 

"  If  you  had  come  at  that  moment,"  she  concluded, 
"  I  would  have  gone  with  you  to  the  end  of  the  earth. 
I  have  a  pretty  strong  personality,  but  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  wax  in  me  then,  and  if  you  could  have  gotten 
it  between  your  hands  I  think  that  what  you  moulded 
would  have  closely  resembled  your  ideal  —  the  impres- 
sion you  had  already  made  had  so  strongly  coloured 
and  trained  my  imagination.  But,"  she  continued 
hastily,  and  glancing  anxiously  to  the  far  distant  end  of 
the  avenue,  "you  see  my  life  changed  immediately 
after  that,  and  I  went  into  the  world  and  became  hard 
and  bitter  and  cynical.  I  have  no  ideals  left,  and  I  do 
not  want  any  —  I  have  seen  too  much  —  " 

"Hush!"  he  said  passionately,  "I  do  not  believe  a 
word  of  it.  Why,  that  was  not  two  years  ago,  and  you 
are  still  a  young  girl.  Have  you  loved  any  one  else?" 
he  asked  abruptly,  his  voice  less  steady. 

"  No ! " 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    255 

He  was  too  excited  to  note  the  meaning  of  her 
emphasis.  He  was  only  conscious  that  he  was  very 
close  to  a  beautiful  woman  who  allured  him  in  all  ways 
as  no  one  woman  had  ever  done  before. 

"  You  are  full  of  a  girl's  cynicism,"  he  said ;  "  you 
have  seen  just  enough  to  make  you  think  you  know  the 
world  —  to  accept  the  superficial  for  the  real.  You  — 
you  yourself  are  an  ideal.  All  you  need  is  to  know 
yourself,  and  I  am  going  to  undertake  the  task  of 
•  teaching  you  —  do  you  hear?  If  I  fail  —  if  I  have 
made  a  mistake  —  if  it  is  only  the  night  and  your 
beauty  that  have  gone  to  my  head  —  well  and  good ; 
but  I  shall  have  the  satisfaction  of  having  tried  —  of 
knowing  —  " 

"  No,  no  !  No,  no  !  "  she  said.  "  You  must  not  come 
here  again.  I  do  not  want  to  see  you  again  —  " 

"  Nonsense  !  You  have  some  sentimental  foolish 
idea  in  your  head,  —  or  perhaps  you  are  engaged  to 
some  man  who  can  give  you  great  wealth  and  position. 
I  shall  not  regard  that,  either.  If  I  feel  to  you  by 
daylight  as  I  do  now,  I  '11  have  you  —  do  you  under- 
stand?" 

Patience  opened  her  lips  to  tell  him  the  truth,  then 
cynically  made  up  her  mind  to  let  matters  take  their 
course.  At  the  same  time  she  was  bitterly  resentful 
that  she  should  feel  as  she  did,  not  as  she  had  once 
dreamed  of  feeling  for  this  man. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  "I  shall  be  here  for  a 
while." 

"  And  I  shall  see  you  in  the  course  of  a  day  or  two. 
I  'm  going  now.  Good-night."  He  let  her  arm  slip 
from  under  his,  but  held  her  hand  closely.  "  And  even 
if  it  so  happened  that  I  never  did  see  you  again,  I 


256    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

should  thank  you  for  the  glimpse  you  have  given  me  of 
a  woman  I  hardly  dared  dream  existed." 

When  he   had  gone  she   anathematised  fate  for  a 
moment,  then  went  back  to  her  guests. 


XII 

LATTMER  BURR  was  evidently  a  man  upon  whom  rebuff 
sat  lightly.  The  next  morning  he  came  suddenly  upon 
Patience  in  a  dark  corner,  and  tried  to  kiss  her.  When- 
ever the  opportunity  offered  he  held  her  hand,  and 
once,  to  her  infinite  disgust,  he  planted  his  foot  squarely 
on  hers  under  the  dinner  table.  A  few  hours  later  they 
happened  to  be  alone  in  one  of  the  small  reception- 
rooms. 

"Look  here,"  exclaimed  Patience,  wrathfully,  "will 
you  let  me  alone?  " 

"  No,  I  won't,"  he  said  good-naturedly.  "  Jove  !  but 
you  are  a  beauty !  " 

She  wore  a  gown  of  white  mull  and  lace,  trimmed 
with  large  knots  of  dark- blue  velvet.  She  had  been 
talking  all  the  evening  with  Mr.  Peele,  Mr.  Field,  and 
Burr,  and  was  somewhat  excited.  Her  lips  were  very 
pink,  her  eyes  very  bright  and  dark.  She  held  her 
head  with  a  young  triumph  in  beauty  and  the  intellect- 
ual tribute  of  clever  men. 

"  Hal  would  be  delighted.  She  has  always  wanted 
me  to  become  the  fashion." 

"You  never  will  be  that,  for  there  are  not  enough 
brainy  men  in  society  to  appreciate  you.  If  all 
were  like  myself,  you  would  be  wearied  with  the  din  of 
admiration —  " 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    257 

"  There 's  nothing  like  having  a  good  opinion  of 
oneself." 

"Why  not?  I  don't  set  up  to  be  an  intellectual 
man  —  intellectual  men  are  out  of  date ;  but  I  'm  a  brainy 
man,  and  I  'd  like  to  know  how  I  'm  to  help  being 
aware  of  the  fact.  I  certainly  don't  claim  to  be  pretty, 
so  you  can't  say  I  'm  actually  wallowing  in  conceit." 

Patience  was  forced  to  laugh.  "  Oh,  you  'd  do  very 
well  if  you  'd  exercise  as  much  sense  in  regard  to  women 
as  you  do  to  affairs.  Just  answer  me  one  question, 
will  you?  Are  you  so  amazingly  fascinating  that 
women  have  the  habit  of  succumbing  at  the  end  of  the 
second  interview?  " 

"  I  never  set  up  to  be  an  ass." 

"  But  your  manner  is  quite  assured.  You  seem  very 
much  surprised  that  I  don't  tumble  into  your  arms 
and  say  'Thank  you.'  Oh,  you  New  York  men  are 
so  funny ! " 

"  Well,  answer  me  one  question  —  you  don't  love 
your  husband,  do  you?" 

"No,  I  don't." 

"Do  you  like  me?" 

"  I  would  if  you  would  n't  make  such  an  idiot  of 
yourself.  You  certainly  are  very  agreeable  to  talk  to." 

He  came  closer,  his  lids  falling.  The  fine  repose  of 
his  manner  was  a  trifle  ruffled.  "Do  you  love  any- 
body else?"  he  asked. 

"  I  do  not." 

"  Then  let  me  love  you." 

"  I  shall  not." 

"  Then  if  you  don't  love  your  husband  and  you  like 
me  and  will  not  let  me  love  you,  you  must  have  a 
lover." 

17 


258    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Patience  burst  into  brief  hilarity. 

"  Is  that  the  logic  of  your  kind?  " 

"  A  beautiful  woman  that  does  not  love  her  husband 
always  loves  another  man." 

"  Or  is  willing  to  be  loved  by  the  first  man  that  hap- 
pens to  have  no  other  affair  on  hand." 

"  You  have  said  that  you  like  me." 

"  I  did  n't  say  I  loved  you  !  " 

"I'd  make  you!" 

"Oh ! "  with  a  deep  contempt  he  was  incapable  of 
understanding,  "  you  could  n't.  But  tell  me  another 
thing ;  I  'm  very  curious.  Has  it  never  occurred  to 
you  that  a  woman  must  be  wooed,  that  it  is  somewhat 
necessary  to  arouse  sentiment  and  feeling  in  her  before 
she  is  willing  to  advance  one  step?  Why,  you  and  your 
kind  demand  her  off-hand  in  a  way  that  is  positively 
funny.  What  has  become  of  all  the  old  traditions?  " 

"  Oh,  bother,"  he  said.  "  Life  is  too  short  to  waste 
time  on  old-fashioned  nonsense.  If  a  man  wants  a 
woman  he  says  so,  and  if  she  's  sensible  and  likes  him 
she  meets  him  half  way.  Men  and  women  of  the 
world  know  what  they  want." 

"That  is  all  there  is  to  love  then?  It  no  longer 
means  anything  else  whatever?  " 

"  Oh  —  you  are  all  wrong.  If  you  were  not  a  spirit- 
ual woman  I  wouldn't  cross  the  room  to  win  you. 
One  can  buy  the  other  sort.  It  is  your  spirituality, 
your  intellectuality,  that  fascinates  me  as  much  as 
your  beauty." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  spirituality  ?  "  she  said 
contemptuously.  "  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  speak  the 
word.  You  desecrate  it." 

He  flushed  purple.     "  There  are  few  things  I  don't 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    259 

understand  —  and  a  good  deal  better  than  you  do, 
perhaps." 

"You  have  a  clever  man's  perception,  that  is  all. 
Association  with  all  sorts  of  women  has  taught  you  the 
difference  between  them.  But  what  could  you  give  a 
spiritual  woman?  Nothing.  You  have  not  a  shrunken 
kernel  of  soul.  The  sensual  envelope  is  too  thick; 
your  brain  too  crowded  with  the  thousand  and  one  petty 
experiences  of  material  life.  You  are  as  ingenuous  as 
all  fast  men,  for  the  women  you  have  spent  your  life 
running  after  make  no  demands  upon  subtlety —  " 

"Take  care,"  he  said  angrily;  "you  are  going  too 
far.  I  tell  you  I  have  as  much  soul  as  any  man  living." 

"Perhaps.  I  doubt  if  any  man  has  much.  Men 
give  women  nothing,  as  far  as  I  can  see.  If  we  want 
companionship  there  seems  nothing  to  do  but  to  de- 
scend to  your  level  and  grovel  with  you." 

"  I  would  never  make  you  grovel.  I  would  rever- 
ence— " 

"  Oh,  rot !  "  she  cried,  stamping  her  foot.  "  What  a 
fool  —  and  worse  —  the  average  woman  must  be. 
You  have  no  idea  how  ingenuously  you  are  giving  away 
the  women  of  society.  And  soul !  The  idea  of  a 
man  who  pretends  to  love  the  woman  he  is  engaged 
to  and  is  making  love  to  another,  and  that  her  sister-in- 
law  and  most  intimate  friend,  claiming  to  have  a  soul ! 
Have  you  no  sense  of  humour?  I  say  nothing  about 
honour,  as  I  wish  to  be  understood,  if  possible ;  but 
you  are  clever  enough  to  see  the  ridiculous  in  most 
things  —  Please  don't  walk  over  me.  There  is  plenty 
of  room.  And  the  windows  are  open,  you  know  —  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  am  here,"  cried  a  furious  voice,  and 
Beverly  sprang  into  the  room. 


260    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

% 

Patience  stepped  back  with  a  faint  exclamation. 
Burr  turned  white.  Beverly  was  shaking  with  rage. 
His  face  was  almost  black ;  there  were  white  flecks  on 
his  nostrils. 

"  I  kept  quiet,"  he  articulated,  "  to  hear  every  word. 
You  dog  !  "  to  Burr.  "  I  may  be  pretty  bad,  but  I  'd 
never  do  what  you  have  done.  And  as  for  you,"  he 
shook  his  fist  at  his  wife,  "you  were  only  leading 
him  on.  If  I  could  only  have  held  myself  in  another 
moment  I'd  have  seen  you  in  his  arms.  Get  out 
of  this  house,"  he  roared,  "both  of  you.  You'll 
never  marry  my  sister.  I  'm  going  to  tell  her  this 
minute  —  " 

Burr  sprang  forward  and  caught  him  by  the  collar ; 
but  Beverly  was  not  a  coward.  He  turned,  flinging 
'  out  his  fist,  and  the  two  men  grappled.  Patience 
closed  the  door  and  glanced  out  of  the  window.  No 
one  was  near.  Voices  floated  up  from  the  cliffs.  Burr 
was  the  more  powerful  man  of  the  two,  and  in  a 
moment  had  flung  Beverly,  panting,  into  a  chair. 

"  Keep  him  here,"  said  Patience,  rapidly,  and  she 
left  the  room. 

"  Man  is  certainly  still  a  savage,  a  brute,"  she 
thought.  "  What  is  the  matter  with  civilisation?  " 

As  she  crossed  the  lawn,  she  met  one  of  the  servants. 

"  Go  and  find  Miss  Hal,  and  ask  her  to  come  here," 
she  said.  A  few  moments  later  her  sister-in-law  hur- 
ried up  from  the  cliffs. 

"What  is  it?"  she  called  cheerily.  "Has  Bev  had 
an  apoplectic  fit?" 

"  Beverly  has  been  making  a  greater  fool  of  himself 
than  usual,"  said  Patience,  as  the  girls  met,  "and 
I  want  to  see  you  before  he  does.  I  was  standing  in 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    261 

one  of  the  reception-rooms  talking  to  Mr.  Burr  after 
Mr.  Field  and  Mr.  Peele  had  gone  out,  and  he  had  on 
all  his  manner  and  was  telling  me  how  beautiful  I  was, 
in  his  usual  after  dinner  style,  when  Beverly  leaped 
through  the  window  like  the  wronged  husband  in  the 
melodrama  and  accused  us  of  making  love.  He  threat- 
ened to  come  and  tell  you,  and  he  and  Mr.  Burr 
wrestled  like  two  prize-fighters.  If  Beverly  were  put 
on  the  witness  stand  he  'd  be  obliged  to  admit  that 
Mr.  Burr  had  not  so  much  as  touched  my  hand.  I 
suppose  you  will  believe  me?" 

Hal  gave  her  light  laugh.  "  Certainly,  my  dear, 
certainly;  although  if  I  were  a  man  I  should  fall  in 
love  with  you  myself.  I  wouldn't  bet  on  Latimer, 
but  I  would  on  you  —  so  don't  worry  your  little  head. 
Do  you  suppose  I  expect  a  man  with  that  mouth  and 
those  eyes  to  be  faithful  to  me  ?  Still,  I  must  say  that 
I  should  have  given  him  credit  for  more  decency  than 
to  make  love  to  my  sister-in-law  —  " 

"  He  did  n't !     I  swear  he  did  n't." 

"  Oh,  of  course  not !  Nor  'will  he  make  love  to 
every  pretty  woman  he  finds  himself  alone  with  for  five 
minutes.  He  can't  help  it,  poor  thing.  Let  us  go  and 
talk  to  the  gentlemen." 

As  they  entered  the  little  room  she  exclaimed  airily, 
"  Been  making  a  fool  of  yourself  again,  Bev?  No, 
don't  speak.  Patience  has  told  me  all  about  it.  I 
have  every  confidence  in  her  and  Latimer.  Better  go 
and  take  a  spin  with  Tammany.  Latimer,  you  really 
must  mend  your  manners.  They  're  too  good.  From 
a  distance  a  stranger  would  really  think  you  were  mak- 
ing love  when  you  are  swearing  at  the  heat.  Now,  come 
down  to  the  Tea  House.  Good -night,  Bevvy  dear." 


262    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

And  she  went  off  between  her  lover  and  her  sister- 
in-law,  leaving  her  brother  to  swear  forth  his  righteous 
indignation. 

That  night  Patience  opened  the  door  of  her  hus- 
band's room  for  the  first  time.  Beverly,  who  had  just 
entered,  was  so  astonished  that  the  wrath  he  had  care- 
fully nourished  fell  like  quicksilver  under  a  cool  wave, 
and  he  stared  at  her  without  speaking. 

"  I  wish  to  tell  you,"  said  his  wife,  "  that  you  were 
entirely  justified  in  being  angry  to-night.  I  could  have 
suppressed  Burr  by  a  word,  but  I  chose  to  lead  him  on 
to  gratify  my  curiosity.  Hal  wishes  to  marry  him,  and 
I  am  determined  that  she  shall.  If  I  had  admitted 
the  truth  to  her  or  permitted  you  to  enlighten  her,  her 
self-respect  would  have  forced  her  to  break  the  engage- 
ment. That  would  have  been  absurd,  for  the  match  is 
exactly  what  she  wants,  and  she  is  not  marrying  with 
illusions.  But  you  have  been  treated  inconsiderately, 
and  I  apologise  for  my  share  in  it.  Will  you  forgive 
me?" 

"  Of  course  I  '11  forgive  you,"  said  Beverly,  eagerly. 
"  I  was  n't  angry  with  you,  anyhow  —  only  with  that 
scoundrel.  But  I  never  believed  you  'd  do  this.  Do 
you  care  for  me  a  little?  " 

Patience  averted  her  face  that  she  might  not  see  the 
expression  on  his.  Despite  her  loathing  of  him  she 
gave  him  a  certain  measure  of  pity.  With  all  the  pre- 
ponderance of  the  savage  in  him  and  the  limitations  of 
his  intelligence  he  had  his  own  capacity  for  suffering, 
and  to-night  he  stood  before  her  crushed  under  the 
sudden  reaction,  his  eyes  full  of  the  dumb  appeal  of 
shrinking  brutes. 

"  If  we  are  going  to  live  peacefully   don't   let   us 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    263 

discuss  that  subject,"  she  said  gently.  "  We  have  both 
missed  it,  and  I  sometimes  think  that  you  are  more 
to  be  pitied  than  I  am.  However,  I  shall  not  flirt  — 
I  promise  you  that.  Good-night." 

That  was  the  last  of  Mr.  Burr's  illegal  love-making  at 
Peele  Manor.  He  had  had  a  fright  and  a  lesson,  and 
he  forgot  neither. 


XIII 

"GARAN  BOURKE  is  coming  to  dinner  to-night,"  said 
Hal,  the  next  day.  "  It 's  the  hardest  thing  in  the 
world  to  get  him ;  he  never  goes  anywhere ;  but  he 
half  promised  mamma,  when  he  called  the  other  night, 
that  he  'd  come  some  day  this  week,  and  he  wrote 
yesterday,  saying  he  'd  dine  with  us  to-day.  I  want 
you  to  meet  him.  He  is  awfully  clever,  and  when  he 
talks  I  want  to  close  my  eyes  and  listen  to  his  voice. 
If  the  dear  girls  ever  get  the  vote  and  do  jury  duty,  all 
he  '11  have  to  do  will  be  to  quote  law.  He  need  n't 
take  the  trouble  to  sum  up.  His  voice  will  do  the 
business  every  time." 

Patience,  in  a  French  gown  of  black  chiffon,  was 
very  beautiful  that  night.  She  did  not  go  down  to 
dinner  until  every  one  was  seated.  Bourke  sat  next  to 
Mrs.  Peele.  Her  own  chair  was  near  the  end  of  the 
opposite  side  of  the  long  table.  For  a  time  she  did 
not  look  at  Bourke.  When  she  did  she  met  his  eyes ; 
and  knew  by  their  expression  that  some  one  had  told 
him  she  was  the  wife  of  Beverly  Peele. 

After  dinner  he  went  with  Mr.  Peele  and  Burr  into 


264    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

the  library.  Patience  was  about  to  follow  a  party  of 
young  people  down  to  the  bluff,  when  Mr.  Field  drew 
her  arm  firmly  through  his. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  desert  your  court?  "  he  said- 
"  Why,  you  don't  suppose  I  come  up  here  to  talk  to 
Peele,  do  you  ?  If  you  go  out  with  those  boys  I  '11 
never  come  here  again."  And  he  led  her  into  the 
library. 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  when  she  found  herself 
alone  with  Bourke.  The  others  had  gone  out,  one  by 
one.  She  had  made  no  attempt  to  follow  theju.  She 
sat  with  defiant  eyes  and  inward  trepidation.  Bourke 
regarded  her  with  narrowed  eyes  and  twitching  nostrils. 

"  So  you  are  married  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"Yes." 

"  And  you  deliberately  made  a  fool  of  me  ?  " 

"No  —  no  —  I  did  nothing  deliberately  that  night 
—  no  —  I  acted  on  impulse.  And  all  that  I  said  was 
quite  true.  Of  course  I  should  have  told  you  —  " 

"  But  it  would  have  spoiled  your  comedy." 

"  No  —  no  —  don't  think  that.  I  see  that  I  was 
dishonest  —  I  am  not  making  excuses  —  I  never 
thought  you  'd  become  really  interested  —  " 

"  I  am  not  breaking  my  heart.  Don't  let  that  worry 
you.  The  mere  fact  of  your  dishonesty  is  quite  enough 
to  break  the  spell  —  for  you  are  not  the  woman  I  im- 
agined you  to  be.  I  was  merely  worshipping  an  ideal 
for  the  hour.  Do  you  love  your  husband  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  you  are  a  harlot,"  he  said,  deliberately.  "  It 
only  needed  that."  He  rose  to  his  feet  and  looked 
contemptuously  at  her  scarlet  face.  "  At  all  events  it 
was  an  amusing  episode,"  he  said.  "  Good-night." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    265 


XIV 

IT  was  a  matter  of  comment  before  the  summer  was 
over,  both  among  the  guests  at  Peele  Manor  and  the 
neighbours,  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beverly  Peele  had  come 
to  the  parting  of  the  ways.  As  the  young  man's  infat- 
uation was  as  notable  as  his  wife's  indifference,  he 
received  the  larger  share  of  sympathy.  The  married 
men  championed  Patience  and  expressed  it  in  their 
time-honoured  fashion ;  and  although  they  worried  her 
she  looked  forward  with  terror  to  the  winter:  she 
would  willingly  have  taken  them  all  to  board  and 
trusted  to  their  wives  to  keep  them  in  order. 

Beverly  had  confided  his  woes  long  since  to  his 
mother.  She  declined  to  discuss  the  subject  with  her 
daughter-in-law,  but  treated  her  with  a  chill  severity. 
Fortunately  they  were  gay  that  summer,  and  Patience 
had  much  to  do.  Hal  and  May  were  absorbed  in 
preparations  for  their  wedding,  and  the  duties  of  host- 
ess fell  largely  on  her  shoulders. 

Late  in  the  fall  there  was  a  double  wedding  under 
the  medallion  of  Peele  the  First.  Immediately  there- 
after May  went  to  Cuba ;  and  Hal  to  Europe,  to  pay  a 
series  of  visits.  Mrs.  Peele  continued  to  entertain,  and 
was  obliged  to  confess  that  her  daughter-in-law  was 
very  useful,  and  in  deportment  above  reproach.  Out- 
wardly Patience  looked  almost  as  cold  a  woman  of  the 
world  as  herself,  and  gave  no  evidence  of  the  storms 
brewing  within;  but  one  day  she  hung  out  a  signal. 
Mrs.  Peele  announced  that  she  should  go  to  town  on 


266    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

the  first  of  December.  Patience  followed  her  into  her 
bedroom  and  closed  the  door. 

"May  I  speak  to  you  a  moment  alone?"  she  asked. 

"Certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Peele,  frigidly.  "Will  you 
sit  down?" 

She  herself  took  an  upright  chair,  and  suggested, 
Patience  thought,  a  judge  on  his  bench. 

"I  want  to  go  to  town  with  you  this  winter." 

"  I  should  be  happy  to  have  my  dear  son  with  me, 
and  I  will  not  deny  that  you  are  a  great  help  to  me ; 
but  Beverly  is  as  strongly  opposed  as  ever  to  city  life. 
I  asked  him  myself  to  go  down  for  the  winter,  but  he 
refused.  He  is  one  of  Nature's  own  children,  and  loves 
the  country." 

"  He  certainly  is  very  close  to  Nature  in  several  of 
her  moods.  But  I  wish  to  go  whether  he  does  or 
not." 

"You  would  leave  your  husband?"  Mrs.  Peele 
spoke  with  meditative  scorn. 

"  It  will  be  better  for  both  of  us  not  to  be  shut 
up  here  together  for  another  winter.  I  —  I  will  not 
answer  for  the  consequences." 

"Is  that  a  threat?" 

"  You  can  take  it  as  you  choose." 

" Do  you  not  love  my  son?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not." 

"  And  you  are  not  ashamed  to  make  such  an 
admission?" 

"  Would  you  prefer  to  have  me  lie  about  it?  " 

"  It  is  your  duty  to  love  your  husband." 

"  That  proposition  is  rather  too  absurd  for  argument, 
don't  you  think  so  ?  Will  you  persuade  Beverly  to  let 
me  go  with  you  to  town?  " 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    267 

"I  shall  not.  You  should  be  glad,  overjoyed,  to 
have  such  a  husband.  You  should  feel  grateful,"  she 
added,  unburdening  her  spite  in  the  vulgarity  which 
streaks  high  and  low,  "  that  he  loved  you  well  enough 
to  overlook  your  lack  of  family  and  fortune  —  " 

But  Patience  had  left  the  room. 

That  evening  she  went  to  her  father-in-law  and 
stated  her  case.  She  spoke  calmly,  although  she  was 
bitter  and  sore  and  worried.  "  I  cannot  stay  here  with 
Beverly  this  winter,"  she  continued.  "  I  need  not 
explain  any  farther.  Mrs.  Peele  will  not  consent  to  my 
going  to  town  with  her.  But  could  n't  I  live  abroad  ? 
I  could  do  so  on  very  little.  I  should  care  nothing  for 
society  if  I  could  live  my  life  by  myself.  I  should  be 
quite  contented  with  books  and  freedom.  But  I  can- 
not stay  here  with  Beverly  alone  again." 

Mr.  Peele  shook  his  head.  "It  wouldn't  do.  I 
understand ;  but  it  would  only  result  in  scandal,  and  I 
don't  like  scandal.  We  have  never  gone  to  pieces,  like 
so  many  great  New  York  families.  Our  women  have 
been  proud  and  conservative,  and  have  not  used  their 
position  to  cloak  their  amours.  I  have  perfect  confi- 
dence in  you,  of  course  ;  but  if  you  went  to  Europe  and 
left  Beverly  raging  here,  people  would  say  that  you  had 
gone  to  meet  another  man.  Moreover,  it  would  do  no 
good.  Beverly  would  follow  you.  And  he  will  give 
you  no  cause  for  divorce  :  he  has  the  cunning  peculiar 
to  the  person  of  ugly  disposition  and  limited  mentality. 
No,  try  to  stand  it.  Remember  that  all  the  humours 
of  human  nature  have  their  limit.  Beverly  will  become 
indifferent  in  time.  Then  he  will  let  you  come  to  us. 
I  intend  to  take  a  rest  in  a  year  or  two  and  go  abroad, 
and  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  with  us.  I  do  not  mind 


268    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

telling  you  that  you  are  the  brightest  young  woman  I 
have  ever  known  —  and  Mr.  Field  has  said  the  same 
thing." 

But  Patience  was-  not  in  a  mood  to  bend  her  neck  to 
flattery.  She  shook  her  head  gloomily. 

"  If  I  have  any  brain,  cannot  you  see  that  I  suffer  the 
more  ?  Mr.  Peele,  I  cannot  stay  here  with  Beverly  ! 
Do  you  know  that  sometimes  I  have  felt  that  I  could 
kill  him?  I  am  afraid  of  myself." 

"  Hush  !  Hush  !  Don't  say  such  things.  You  excit- 
able young  women  are  altogether  too  extravagant  in 
your  way  of  expressing  yourselves.  Words  carry  a  great 
deal  farther  than  you  have  any  idea  of  —  take  an  old 
lawyer's  word  for  it.  Now  try  to  stand  it.  In  fact, 
you  must  stand  it.  I  '11  do  all  I  can.  I  '11  leave  a 
standing  order  with  Brentano  to  send  you  all  the  new 
books,  and  I  '11  insist  upon  your  coming  up  every  week 
or  so  to  have  some  amusement.  But  for  God's  sake 
make  no  scandal." 


XV 

ON  the  first  of  December  Patience  and  Beverly  were 
alone  once  more.  The  weather  was  fine,  and  Beverly 
temporarily  absorbed  in  breaking  in  a  colt  on  his  private 
track.  Patience  spent  the  first  day  wandering  about 
the  woods,  tormented  by  her  thoughts.  She  remem- 
bered with  passionate  regret  the  old  crystal  woods 
where  she  had  been  a  girl  of  dreams  and  ideals.  Her 
ideals  were  in  ruins.  The  hero  of  her  dreams  had  told 
her  a  hideous  truth  that  had  made  her  hate  him  and 
more  abundantly  despise  herself.  She  longed  ardently 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    269 

to  get  away  to  a  mountain  top,  a  hundred  miles  from 
civilisation.  Nature  had  been  her  friend  in  the  old 
Californian  days,  and  the  green  or  white  beauty  of  her 
second  environment  had  satisfied  her  in  that  peaceful 
intermediate  time.  But  Westchester  County,  although 
exquisitely  pretty,  lacked  grandeur  and  the  suggestion  of 
colossal  throes  in  remote  ages  with  which  every  stone  in 
California  is  eloquent.  That  was  what  she  wanted  now. 
But  there  was  no  prospect  of  getting  away.  Did  she 
have  enthusiasm  enough  left  to  leave  summarily  she 
had  little  money.  She  was  very  extravagant,  and  left 
the  larger  part  of  her  quarterly  allowance  with  New 
York  shops  and  milliners  and  dressmakers ;  but  she 
knew  that  the  end  was  approaching,  and  listlessly 
awaited  it. 

Heavy  with  rebellious  disgust  she  returned  to  the 
house  and  went  mechanically  to  the  library.  For  a 
while  she  did  not  read ;  she  felt  no  impulse  to  do  so. 
But  after  a  time  she  took  down  a  book  in  desperation, 
a  volume  of  a  new  edition  de  luxe  of  "  Childe 
Harold."  She  had  not  read  it  during  her  brief  Byronic 
fever,  and  had  not  opened  the  poet  since.  Gradually 
she  forgot  self.  She  began  with  the  third  canto,  and 
when  she  had  finished  the  fourth  she  discovered  that 
her  spirits  were  lighter,  a  weight  had  risen  from  her 
brain.  She  had  always  regarded  " notes  "as  an  evi- 
dence of  the  amateur  reader,  but  to-day  she  scrawled  on 
a  fly-leaf  of  Mr.  Peele's  new  morocco  edition :  — 

"  As  the  Christian  goes  to  his  God  for  help,  the  intel- 
lectual, in  hours  of  depression  and  disgust  and  doubt  go 
to  the  great  Creators  of  Literature,  those  master  minds 
that  lift  our  own  temporarily  above  the  terrible  enigma  of 
the  commonplace,  and  possess  us  to  the  extinction  of 


270    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

personal  meditation.  Are  not  these  genii  as  worthy  of  dei- 
fication by  the  higher  civilisation  as  was  Jesus  Christ  —  their 
brother — by  the  great  illogical  suffering  mass  of  mankind  ? 
*  Faith  shall  make  ye  whole,'  said  Christ ;  *  come  unto  me, 
all  ye  that  are  heavy  laden.'  «  Develop  your  brain,  and  I 
will  give  you  self-oblivion,  philosophy,  and  a  soul  of  many 
windows,'  say  the  great  masters  of  thought  and  style,  the 
stupendous  creative  imaginations." 

Beverly  came  home  in  high  good  humour ;  his  colt 
had  showed  his  blood,  and  nearly  pulled  him  out  of  the 
break-cart.  Patience  endeavoured  to  appear  inter- 
ested, and  he  was  so  pleased  that  the  atmosphere  dur- 
ing dinner  was  quite  domestic.  Afterward  he  went  to 
sleep  on  a  sofa  by  the  library  fire,  and  his  wife  read. 

A  week  passed  more  placidly  than  Patience  had  ex- 
pected. Beverly  was  evidently  under  stress  to  make 
himself  agreeable.  His  wife  suspected  that  he  had  had 
a  long  and  meaning  conference  with  his  father.  In 
truth  he  was  desperately  afraid  that  she  would  leave 
him.  Patience  did  not  know  whether  she  hated  him 
most  when  he  was  amiable  or  violent ;  but  she  hated 
herself  more  than  she  hated  him. 

"  I  think  I  '11  go  to  town  and  see  Rosita,"  she 
thought  one  morning  as  she  awakened.  "  It  seems  to 
me  that  she  is  the  fittest  companion  I  could  find." 

At  the  breakfast-table  she  appeared  in  a  tailor  frock 
and  turban,  and  informed  Beverly  that  she  was  going  to 
town  to  pay  some  visits.  Beverly  looked  at  her  for  a 
moment  with  black  face,  then  dropped  his  eyes  without 
comment.  He  recalled  his  father's  advice. 

"What  train  shall  you  come  home  in?"  he  .asked 
after  a  moment.  "  I  '11  go  down  to  the  station  to  meet 
you." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    271 

"  I  cannot  say.  I  shall  be  back  to  dinner." 
"  Are  n't  you  going  to  kiss  me  good-bye  ?  "  he  asked 
sullenly,  when  she  was  about  to  open  the  front  door. 
She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  raised  her  face,  closing 
her  eyes,  lest  he  should  see  the  impulse  to  strike  him. 
He  saw  the  hesitation  and  turned  away  with  an  oath, 
then  ran  after  her,  flung  his  arms  about  her  and  kissed 
her.  She  walked  down  to  the  station  with  burning 
face,  rubbing  her  mouth  and  cheeks  violently,  careless 
of  the  wide-eyed  regard  of  two  gardeners. 


XVI 

WHEN  she  arrived  at  Rosita's  the  maid  admitted  her 
without  protest,  not  recognising  in  this  elegant  young 
woman  the  countrified  girl  of  two  years  before.  She 
left  Patience  in  the  dark  drawing-room,  but  returned  in 
a  moment  and  announced  that  Madame  would  see  Mrs. 
Peele  at  once.  Patience  followed  the  woman  through 
the  boudoir  and  bedroom  to  the  bath-room,  a  classic 
apartment  of  pink  tiles.  The  tub  was  merely  one  cor- 
ner of  the  room  walled  off  with  tiles ;  and  in  it,  covered 
from  throat  to  foot  with  a  sheet,  her  head  on  a  silken 
strap,  lay  Rosita.  By  her  side  sat  a  girl  in  a  fashion- 
able ulster  and  large  hat,  a  note-book  and  pencil  on 
her  lap.  Rosita  looked  like  a  dark-haired  Aphrodite, 
and  was  as  fresh  as  a  rose.  A  maid  had  just  dried  one 
pink  and  white  hand,  and  she  held  it  out  to  Patience. 

"  Patita  !  Patita  !  Patita  !  "  she  said  with  her  sweet 
drawl  and  accent,  and  without  a  trace  of  resentment  in 
her  soft  heavy  eyes.  "  Where,  where  have  you  been  all 


272    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

these  years?  Miss  Merrien,  this  is  my  oldest  and 
dearest  friend,  Mrs.  Beverly  Peele  [she  pronounced  the 
name  with  visible  pride].  Patita,  this  is  Miss  Merrien 
of  the  '  Day.'  She  is  interviewing  me." 

Patience  flushed  as  she  bent  her  head  to  the  young 
woman,  who  regarded  her  with  conspicuous  amazement, 
and  whose  nostrils  quivered  a  little,  as  if  she  scented  a 
"  story."  She  was  a  pretty  girl  with  a  dark  rather  worn 
face,  a  frank  eye,  and  a  nervous  manner. 

"  Patita,  sit  down  there  just  for  a  moment  while  I 
look  at  you.  Then  we  will  go  into  the  other  room. 
I  could  not  wait  to  see  you.  Dios  de  mi  alma,  but  you 
have  changed,  Patita  mia.  Who  would  ever  have 
thought  that  you  would  be  such  a  beauty  and  such  a 
swell.  Gray  cloth  and  chinchilla  !  Just  think,  Miss 
Merrien,  we  used  to  wear  sunbonnets  and  copper-toed 
boots,  and  drove  an  old  blind  horse  that  would  not  go 
off  a  walk." 

"May  I  put  that  down?  "  asked  the  girl,  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  please  don't,"  exclaimed  Patience.  Miss  Mer- 
rien's  face  fell.  Then  she  smiled,  and  said  good- 
naturedly,  "  All  right,  I  won't." 

"  And  now  Patita  is  a  swell,"  pursued  Rosita, 
as  if  no  interruption  had  occurred,  "and  I  am  a 
famous  prima  donna.  Such  is  life.  Patita,  do  you 
know  that  I  have  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  in- 
vested?" 

"Really?" 

"Si,  senorita!  Oh,  my  price  has  gone  up,  Patita 
mia"  and  she  laughed  her  low  delicious  laugh. 

Miss  Merrien  smiled.  "  A  man  shot  himself  for  that 
laugh  the  other  day  —  I  suppose  you  read  about  it," 
she  said. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    273 

"  No,  I  did  not.  I  have  read  the  newspapers  irreg- 
ularly of  late  —  the  'stories,'  at  least." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Rosita,  complacently.  "  Oh,  Patita, 
life  is  so  lovely.  To  think  that  we  both  had  such  great 
destinies  !  Pobre  Manuela,  and  Panchita,  and  all  the 
rest !  Bueno,  go  into  the  bedroom,  both  of  you,  and  I 
will  be  there  in  ten  minutes." 

Patience  and  Miss  Merrien  seated  themselves  in  the 
white  bower  of  velvet  and  lace. 

"Please  do  not  put  me  into  your  story,"  said  Pa- 
tience, hastily.  "  It  would  not  do  —  you  see  my  hus- 
band would  not  like  it  —  but  we  are  old  friends,  and  I 
wanted  to  see  her." 

Miss  Merrien  nodded  intelligently.  With  the  suspi- 
cion of  her  craft  she  leaped  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
fashionable  young  woman  came  to  her  disreputable 
friend  for  an  occasional  lark. 

"  Oh,  I  promise  you.  If  you  had  n't  asked  me  I 
should  though.  It  would  make  a  fine  story." 

"Tell  me,"  said  Patience  abruptly,  "do  you  like  be* 
ing  a  newspaper  woman?  Is  it  very  hard  work?  " 

"  Yes,  it 's  hard  work,"  Miss  Merrien  answered  in  some 
surprise ;  "  but  then  it  is  the  most  fascinating,  I  do 
believe,  in  the  whole  world.  I  have  a  family  and  a 
home  out  West,  and  I  could  go  back  and  be  comforta- 
ble if  I  wanted  to  ;  but  I  would  n't  give  up  this  life,  with 
all  its  grind  and  uncertainty,  for  that  dead  and  alive 
existence.  I  only  go  out  there  once  a  year  to  rest.  I 
came  on  here  for  an  experiment,  to  see  a  little  of  the 
world.  I  had  a  dreadful  time  catching  on ;  once  I 
thought  I  'd  starve,  for  I  was  bound  I  would  n't  write 
home  for  money ;  but  I  hung  on  and  got  there.  And 
I  'm  here  to  stay." 

18 


274    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Oh,  is  it  really  so  pleasant  ?  Sometimes  I  wish  I 
were  a  newspaper  woman." 

"  You  ?  You  ?  I  never  saw  anybody  that  looked 
less  like  one." 

"  I  am  very  strong.     I  arn  naturally  pale,  that  is  all." 

"  Oh,  your  skin  is  lovely  :  it 's  that  warm  dead  white. 
I  was  n't  thinking  of  that.  But  you  look  like  the  prin- 
cess that  felt  the  pea  under  sixteen  mattresses." 

"  One  adapts  one's  self  easily  to  luxury.  I  have 
only  had  it  two  years.  I  do  like  it  certainly.  Never- 
theless, I  'd  like  to  be  a  newspaper  woman.  You  look 
tired;  are  you?" 

"  Yes,  I  am,  Mrs.  Peele.  It 's  hard  work,  if  it  is 
fascinating ;  for  instance,  I  've  chased  about  this  entire 
week  for  stories  that  have  n't  panned  out  for  a  cent.  I 
have  n't  made  ten  dollars.  I  came  up  here  as  a  last 
resource.  La  Rosita  is  always  good-natured,  and  I 
hoped  she  'd  have  a  story  for  me.  But  all  I  Ve  got  is 
a  crank  that 's  following  her  about  threatening  to  kill 
her  if  she  does  n't  marry  him,  and  that 's  such  a  chest- 
nut. If  I  could  only  fake  something  I  know  she  'd  let 
it  go,  but  my  imagination  's  worn  to  a  thread  —  " 

The  portiere  was  pushed  aside,  and  Rosita  entered. 
She  wore  a  glistening  night-robe  of  silk  and  lace  and 
ribbon  under  a  yellow  plush  bath  gown.  Her  dense 
black  hair  fell  to  her  knees.  She  slid  into  bed  and 
ordered  her  maid  to  admit  the  manicure.  An  old 
woman,  looking  like  a  witch  and  clad  in  shabby  black, 
came  in  and  took  a  chair  beside  the  bed.  The  maid 
brought  a  crystal  bowl  and  warm  water, 'and  a  golden 
manicure  set,  and  Rosita  held  forth  her  incomparable 
arm  with  its  little  Spanish  hand.  She  lay  with  indolent 
grace  among  the  large  pillows. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    275 

"You  certainly  are  a  beauty,"  exclaimed  Miss  Merrien, 
enthusiastically. 

Rosita  smiled  with  much  pleasure.  "  I  love  to  hear 
a  woman  say  that,  and  I  shall  make  good  copy  for 
many  years  yet.  I  shall  not  fade  like  most  Spanish 
women.  Oh,  I  have  learned  many  secrets." 

"  I  wish  you  had  n't  told  them  to  me,  and  then  I 
should  still  have  them  to  write  about.  They  made  a 
great  story." 

"  Dios!  Dios!  "  said  Rosita,  plaintively,  "  I  wish  we 
could  think  of  something.  I  hate  to  send  you  away 
with  nothing  at  all.  I  love  to  be  written  about.  Patita, 
can't  you  think  of  something?" 

"Now,  Mrs.  Peele,"  said  Miss  Merrien,  "let  us  see 
if  you  are  a  good  fakir.  That  is  one  of  the  first  es- 
sentials of  being  a  successful  newspaper  woman." 

"  Oh,  dear  !  Is  it  ?  If  I  could  fake  I  'd  make  books. 
I  'd  like  that  even  better.  Rosita,  did  you  ever  tell 
the  newspapers  about  that  time  I  coached  you  for  your 
first  appearance  on  any  stage,  and  the  great  hit  you 
made?" 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Miss  Merrien,  sharply. 

"I  never  thought  of  it.     Patita,  you  tell  the  story." 

This  Patience  did,  while  Miss  Merrien  wrote  rapidly 
in  shorthand,  pausing  occasionally  to  exclaim  with 
rapture. 

"Oh,  my  good  angel  sent  me  here  this  morning," 
she  said  when  Patience  had  finished.  "  I  won't  mention 
your  name,  of  course,  but  you  won't  mind  my  saying 
that  you  are  one  of  the  Four  Hundred." 

"  I  don't  suppose  there  is  any  objection.  I  am  such 
an  obscure  member  of  it  that  no  one  will  suspect  me. 
Only  don't  give  any  details." 


276    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"Oh,  I  won't,  indeed  I  won't."  She  slipped  her 
book  into  her  muff  and  rose  to  go.  "  You  don't  know 
how  much  obliged  I  am.  I  '11  do  as  much  for  you  some 
day.  If  ever  you  want  to  be  written  up,  let  me  know." 

"  I  never  should  want  to  be  in  the  newspapers." 

"  Oh,  there 's  no  telling.  You  have  n't  had  a  taste  of 
it  yet.  Well,  good-morning,"  and  she  went  out. 

Patience  leaned  back  in  her  luxurious  chair,  and 
watched  the  old  woman  polish  the  pretty  nails.  Rosita 
babbled,  and  Patience  watched  her  face  closely.  Its 
colouring  was  as  fresh,  its  contours  as  perfect  as  ever,  but 
there  was  a  faint  touch  of  hardness  somewhere,  and  the 
eyes  held  more  secrets  than  they  had  two  years  ago. 
They  were  the  eyes  of  the  wanton.  For  a  moment 
Patience  forgot  her  surroundings.  Her  mind  flew  back 
to  the  old  days,  to  the  rickety  buggy  with  the  two  con- 
tented innocent  little  girls,  then,  by  a  natural  deflection, 
to  her  tower  and  her  dreams.  She  longed  passionately 
for  the  old  Mission,  and  wondered  if  Solomon  were  still 
alive.  Then  she  thought  of  Bourke,  and  came  back  to 
the  present  with  a  shudder.  The  woman  had  gone. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  asked  Rosita.  "  Is  it  true  — 
what  the  men  say  —  that  you  are  not  happy  with  your 
husband?" 

"  I  hate  him,"  said  Patience. 

"  Why  don't  you  get  a  divorce  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  grounds." 

"  No  grounds  ?     Fancy  a  wife  having  no  grounds  !  " 

"  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  his  faith." 

"  Send  him  to  me." 

"  Oh,  Rosita  !     How  can  you  be  so  coarse  ?  " 

"  No-o-o-o  !  You  are  my  old  friend.  I  would  do 
anything  for  you.  Think  it  over,  Patita  mia" 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    277 

"  I  do  not  need  to  think  it  over.  I  would  never  do 
so  vile  a  thing  as  that.  Have  you  no  refinement  left?" 

"What  earthly  use  would  I  have  for  refinement? 
Patita,  you  are  such  a  baby,  and  you  always  had  ideals 
and  things.  Have  you  got  them  yet?" 

"No,"  said  Patience,  rising  abruptly.  "I  haven't. 
Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,  Patita  dear,"  said  Rosita,  with  unruffled 
good  humour,  "and  if  ever  you  are  in  trouble  come 
here  and  I  will  take  you  in.  I  would  even  lend  you 
money,  and  if  you  knew  me  you  would  know  how  much 
I  loved  you  to  do  that.  There  is  not  another  person 
living  I  would  give  a  five  cent  piece  to." 

When  Patience  reached  the  sidewalk  she  filled  her 
lungs  with  fresh  air,  then  looked  at  her  watch.  It  was 
only  a  half  after  twelve,  and  she  decided  to  call  on 
Mary  Gallatin.  She  had  never  yet  paid  that  charming 
young  fashionette  the  promised  morning  call,  although 
she  had  attended  one  or  two  of  her  afternoon  receptions. 

She  told  the  coachman  to  drive  to  the  house  in  Fifty- 
seventh  Street,  then  threw  herself  back  on  the  seat  and 
laughed,  a  long  unpleasant  laugh.  She  tapped  first  one 
foot  and  then  the  other,  with  increasing  nervousness. 

"  What  fools  we  mortals  be  to  cry  for  the  unattain- 
able," she  said,  addressing  the  little  mirror  opposite. 
"Probably  that  young  newspaper  woman  envies  me 
bitterly.  So,  doubtless,  do  many  others.  Why  on 
earth  am  I  longing  for  what  I  '11  never  find,  instead  of 
making  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain  and  the  most  of  my 
position?  I  think  I  '11  find  my  way  out  of  the  difficulty 
with  the  average  woman's  solution :  I  '11  take  a  lover." 

The  carriage  stopped  before  a  house  with  the  breadth 


278    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

of  stoop  which  in  New  York  means  plentiful  wealth. 
She  waited  in  the  drawing-room  while  the  cautious 
butler  went  up  to  see  if  his  mistress  would  receive  this 
stranger.  He  returned  in  a  moment  and  conducted 
her  up  to  a  door  at  the  front  of  the  house.  Patience 
entered  a  large  room  whose  light  was  so  subdued  that  for 
a  moment  she  could  see  only  vaguely  outlined  forms. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Beverly,  how  dear  of  you,"  cried  a  sweet 
voice,  and  Patience  groped  her  way  round  the  angle  of 
a  large  bed  and  saw  Mrs.  Gallatin  sitting  against  a 
mass  of  pillows.  "  I  'm  so  glad  you  came  this  morning. 
I  'm  feeling  so  blue.  I  Ve  twisted  my  foot,  you  know, 
and  my  friends  are  so  kind  to  me.  Mr.  Rutger,  give 
Mrs.  Peele  a  chair.  Mrs.  Beverly,  you  know  Mr. 
Rutger  and  Mr.  Maitland  and  Mr.  Owen,  do  you  not  ? 
There  is  Leontine." 

The  three  young  men,  who  had  risen  as  she  entered, 
bowed  and  resumed  their  seats.  Mrs.  Lafarge  threw 
her  a  kiss  from  the  depths  of  a  chair  by  the  fire. 

Patience  sat  down  and  glanced  about  her  while  Mrs. 
Lafarge  finished  an  anecdote  she  had  been  telling.  Her 
eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  light,  and  in  a  moment 
she  saw  things  quite  distinctly.  The  large  room  was  fur- 
nished in  Empire  style,  the  walls  and  windows  and  the 
great  mahogany  and  brass  bedstead  covered  with  crim- 
son satin  damask.  There  were  only  a  few  pieces  of 
heavy  furniture,  in  the  room,  but  like  the  bed  they 
were  magnificent.  Each  brass  carving  told  a  different 
story. 

Mrs.  Gallatin,  smiling,  exquisite,  wore  a  cambric 
gown,  less  elaborate  than  Rosita's  but  more  dainty. 
Her  shining  hair  was  drawn  modishly  to  the  top  of  her 
head  and  confined  with  a  pink  porcelain  comb,  carved 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    279 

into  semblance  of  wild  roses.  A  pink  silk  shawl  slipped 
from  her  shoulders.  Another  wild  rose  was  at  her 
throat.  On  her  hands  she  wore  rubies  only. 

The  story  Mrs.  Lafarge  told  was  slightly  naughty,  and 
all  laughed  heartily  at  its  conclusion.  Patience  had 
heard  too  many  naughty  stories  in  the  last  two  years  to 
be  shocked ;  but  when  one  of  the  young  men  began 
another  he  was  promptly  hissed  down. 

"You  are  not  going  to  tell  that  before  Mrs.  Beverly," 
said  Mary  Gallatin.  "  She  is  quite  too  frightfully 
proper.  But  we  're  awfully  fond  of  her  all  the  same," 
and  she  patted  Patience's  hand  while  her  lovely  young 
face  contracted  in  a  charming  scowl.  Patience  won- 
dered if  she  had  a  lover  —  Mr.  Gallatin  was  a  dapper 
little  man  —  and  if  that  was  why  she  looked  so  happy. 
She  glanced  speculatively  at  the  men,  and  wondered  if 
she  could  fall  in  love  with  one  of  them.  But  they 
were  very  ordinary  New  York  youths  of  fashion,  high  of 
shoulder,  slow  of  speech,  large  of  epiglottis,  vacuous  of 
expression.  She  shook  her  head  unconsciously. 

"Why,  what  on  earth  are  you  thinking  about?" 
cried  Mrs.  Gallatin,  with  her  silvery  laugh.  "That 
wasn't  a  shake  of  disapproval,  was  it?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  said  Patience,  hastily.  "  Something 
occurred  to  me,  and  I  forgot  I  was  not  alone.  You 
see,  I  am  so  much  alone  that  I  Ve  even  gotten  into  the 
habit  of  thinking  out  loud."  She  felt  that  she  was  a 
restraint  —  the  suppressed  young  man  had  relapsed 
into  moody  silence  —  and,  as  soon  as  she  reasonably 
could,  rose  to  go.  Mrs.  Gallatin  kissed  her  warmly 
and  Mrs.  Lafarge  came  forward  and  kissed  her  also ; 
but  Patience  detected  a  faint  note  of  relief  in  their 
voices,  and  went  downstairs  feeling  more  depressed 


280    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

than  ever.  "  There  seems  to  be  no  place  for  me,"  she 
thought.  "  I  must  be  out  of  tune  with  everything." 

She  went  to  her  father-in-law's  house  in  Eleventh 
Street  and  found  Mrs.  Peele  and  Honora  gowned  for 
expected  luncheon  guests.  The  former  apologised 
coldly  for  not  being  able  to  ask  her  to  join  them,  but 
"  there  was  only  room  in  the  dining-room  for  eight." 
Honora  rippled  regret,  and  Patience  felt  that  she  should 
disgrace  herself  with  tears  if  she  did  not  get  out  of  the 
house.  She  went  directly  to  the  station,  intending  to 
return  home,  but  as  the  train  approached  Peele  Manor 
she  turned  her  back  squarely  on  the  old  house  and 
decided  to  go  on  to  Mariaville  and  see  Miss  Beale. 
She  remembered  with  satisfaction  that  she  knew  at 
least  one  wholesome  thoroughly  sincere  woman,  how- 
ever misguided. 

When  she  reached  the  station  she  concluded  to  walk 
to  the  house.  She  felt  nervous  and  excited.  Her 
cheeks  burned  and  her  temples  ached  a  little.  She  had 
taken  no  nourishment  that  day  but  a  cup  of  coffee  and 
a  roll,  and  her  head  felt  light.  It  was  now  two  o'clock. 

When  she  had  gone  a  little  more  than  half  way  she 
lifted  her  eyes  and  saw  Miss  Beale  coming  toward  her 
with  beaming  face,  one  hand  ready  to  wave. 

"  Why,  Patience  !  "  she  cried,  as  they  met.  "  I'm  so 
glad  to  see  you.  I  'm  just  going  to  kiss  you  if  it  is  on 
the  street.  I  can't  say  I  thought  you  'd  forgotten  me,  for 
you  've  sent  me  money  for  my  poor  every  time  I  begged 
for  it ;  but  I  did  think  you  'd  never  come  to  see  me." 

Patience  had  no  excuse  to  offer,  so  wisely  attempted 
none,  but  returned  Miss  Beale's  embrace  heartily. 
The  older  woman's  face  was  brilliant  with  pleasure. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    281 

"  Dear  me,  how  pretty  you  have  grown  !  What  a 
colour !  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well. 
How  happy  dear  Miss  Tremont  would  be  to  see  you 
now.  She  was  always  afraid  you  would  be  delicate. 
But  we  can't  wish  her  back,  can  we,  Patience?" 

"  There  's  no  use  wishing  anything  undone.  Where 
are  you  going?" 

"  Where  I  am  going  to  take  you.  Now,  don't  ask 
any  questions,  but  just  come  along." 

Patience,  hoping  that  the  destination  was  a  fair 
where  she  could  get  luncheon,  followed  submissively, 
and  evaded  Miss  Beale's  personal  inquiries  as  best  she 
could. 

"How  does  the  Temperance  Cause  get  on?"  she 
asked  at  length. 

"  Oh,  just  the  same  !  Just  the  same  ! "  said  Miss 
Beale,  with  a  cheerful  sigh.  "  One  makes  slow  progress 
in  this  wicked  world ;  all  we  can  do  is  to  trust  in  the 
Lord  and  do  our  humble  best.  Mariaville  has  three 
new  saloons,  and  the  father  of  one  of  my  scholars  beat 
him  nearly  to  death  the  other  day  for  coming  to  the 
Loyal  Legion  class ;  but  we  '11  win  in  the  end." 

"Meanwhile  are  you  as  much  interested  as  ever?" 
asked  Patience,  curiously. 

"  Oh,  my  !  "  Miss  Beale  gave  an  almost  hilarious 
laugh.  "  Well,  I  should  think  so.  How  could  I  ever 
lose  interest  in  the  Lord's  work  ?  Why,  I  never  even 
get  discouraged." 

"  It  has  occurred  to  me,  sometimes  —  since  I  have 
been  away  and  met  all  sorts  of  people  —  that  if  you 
really  were  Temperance  you  might  have  more  chance 
of  success." 

"If  we  were  what?  " 


282    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"Temperance  in  the  actual  meaning  of  the  word. 
You  're  not,  you  know ;  you  're  teetotalists.  That  is  the 
reason  you  antagonise  so  many  thousands  of  men  who 
might  be  glad  to  help  you  with  their  vote  otherwise. 
The  average  gentleman  —  and  there  are  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  him  —  never  gets  drunk,  and  enjoys  his 
wine  at  dinner  and  even  his  whiskey  and  water.  He 
does  n't  see  any  reason  why  he  should  n't  have  it,  and 
there  is  n't  any.  It  adds  to  the  pleasures  of  life. 
Those  are  the  people  that  really  represent  Temperance, 
and  naturally  they  have  no  sympathy  with  a  movement 
that  they  consider  narrow-minded  and  an  unwarrantable 
intrusion." 

Miss  Beale  shook  her  head  vigorously.  "  It  is  a  sin 
to  touch  it !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  and  sooner  or  later  they 
will  all  be  drunkards,  every  one  of  them.  The  blessing 
of  God  is  not  on  alcohol,  and  it  should  be  banished 
from  the  face  of  the  earth." 

Patience  was  in  a  perverse  and  almost  ugly  mood. 
"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  "  how  do  you  reconcile  your 
animosity  to  alcohol  with  the  story  of  Christ's  turning 
the  water  into  wine  at  the  wedding  feast  ? " 

"It  wasn't  wine,"  said  Miss  Beale,  triumphantly; 
"  it  was  grape  juice.  Wine  takes  days  to  ferment,  so 
the  water  could  n't  possibly  have  become  wine  all  in  a 
minute." 

Patience  burst  into  laughter.  "But,  Miss  Beale,  it 
was  a  miracle  anyhow,  was  n't  it  ?  If  he  could  perform 
a  miracle  at  all  it  would  have  been  as  easy  to  make  wine 
out  of  water  as  grape  juice." 

Miss  Beale  shook  her  head  emphatically  and  set  her 
lips.  "  I  know  that  the  Lord  never  would  have  offered 
wine  to  anybody ;  but  grape  juice  is  delightful,  and  he 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    283 

probably  knew  it,  and  they  called  it  wine.  That  is  all 
there  is  to  it." 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Patience,  forgetting  the  Temper- 
ance question,  as  Miss  Beale  turned  into  a  path  and 
walked  toward  the  side  entrance  of  the  First  Presby- 
terian Church,  "  are  we  going  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  this  is  just  where  we  are  going.  There  is  a 
special  meeting  of  the  Y's  and  Christian  Endeavourers 
of  Mariaville  and  White  Plains  and  two  or  three  other 
places.  Ah !  I  Ve  caught  you  now,  you  naughty 
girl." 

Patience  turned  away  her  face  and  frowned  heavily. 
All  her  old  dislike  of  religion,  almost  forgotten  during 
the  past  two  years,  surged  up  above  the  impulsion  of 
her  fermenting  spirit.  She  felt  the  old  impatience,  the 
old  intolerance. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  in  there?  "  she  asked.  "I 
came  to  see  you." 

"  Oh,  you  're  not  going  to  get  out  of  it,"  cried  Miss 
Beale,  gayly.  "  And  I  know  you  better  than  you  know 
yourself.  I  know  you  always  wanted  to  give  yourself 
to  the  Lord,  only  you  are  too  proud." 

Patience  stared  at  her,  wondering  if  she  had  so  far 
forgotten  herself  as  to  indulge  in  a  little  joke  at  the 
expense  of  her  idols;  but  Miss  Beale  was  looking  at 
her  with  kind,  earnest  eyes.  Patience  laughed,  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Well,  I  '11  go  in  to  please  you ;  but  I  hope  it  won't 
be  too  long,  for  I  'm  horribly  hungry." 

"  Dear,  dear  !  Why  did  n't  you  come  a  little  earlier  ? 
But  it  won't  be  more  than  two  hours,  and  then  I  '11  have 
a  hot  luncheon  prepared  for  you." 

She  led  Patience  through  the  large  church  parlour 


284    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

• 

and  straight  up  to  a  table,  lifting  a  chair  as  she  passed 

the  front  row  of  seats. 

"I  don't  want  to  sit  here,"  whispered  Patience, 
hurriedly  ;  but  Miss  Beale  pushed  her  into  the  chair,  and 
seated  herself  beside  her,  at  the  back  of  the  table. 

"  I  am  going  to  preside,  and  you  are  the  guest  of 
honour,"  she  said.  "  Young  ladies,"  she  continued, 
smiling  at  the  rows  of  bright  and  serious  faces,  "I 
am  sure  you  will  all  be  glad  to  see  Patience  again.  I 
know  she  is  glad  to  see  you." 

Patience  arose  and  bowed  awkwardly,  then  sat  down 
and  tapped  the  floor  with  her  foot.  The  young  women 
looked  surprised  and  pleased.  One  and  all  smiled 
encouragingly,  sure  that  she  had  been  converted  at  last. 
Many  of  the  faces  were  bright  with  youth  and  even  mis- 
chief; others  were  careworn  and  aging.  Not  one  of 
them  but  looked  happy. 

Patience  under  her  calm  exterior  began  to  seethe 
and  mutter  once  more.  Once  she  almost  laughed 
aloud  as  she  thought  of  the  effect  upon  these  simple- 
minded  girls  if  the  hell  within  her  were  suddenly  made 
manifest. 

The  meeting  opened  at  once.  Miss  Beale  offered  a 
prayer,  in  which  she  implored  that  they  all  might  love 
the  Lord  the  more.  Hymns  were  sung,  the  Bible  read, 
and  reports  by  the  various  secretaries  and  treasurers. 
Then  one  serious  and  not  unintelligent-looking  woman 
of  thirty  read  a  platitudinous  paper  beginning  :  "  Some 
one  has  said,  '  The  time  will  come  when  it  will  be  the 
proudest  boast  of  every  man  and  woman  to  say  "  I  am 
an  American."  '  I  say  that  the  time  will  come  when  it 
will  be  the  proudest  boast  of  every  man  and  woman  to 
say,  f  I  am  a  Christian.'  " 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    285 

All  regarded  the  reader  with  eyes  of  affection  and 
approval.  Each  word  Patience,  in  her  abnormal  state 
of  mind,  took  as  a  personal  insult  to  Intellect.  She 
felt  furiously  resentful  that  in  this  Nineteenth  Century 
with  its  educational  facilities,  its  libraries  full  of  the 
achievements  of  great  masters  of  thought,  there  should 
be  so  low  a  standard  of  intellectuality  in  the  middle 
classes.  Even  the  fashionable  women,  frivolous  as  they 
were,  were  brighter,  and  keener  to  pierce  outworn  tra- 
ditions. They  might  not  be  thinkers,  but  they  had  a 
species  of  lightning  in  their  brain  which  rent  supersti- 
tion and  gave  them  flashlight  glimpses  of  life  in  its  true 
proportions. 

The  girls  began  to  give  experiences.  One  had  just 
joined  the  Y's,  and  she  related  with  tears  the  stoiy  of 
her  struggle  between  the  World  and  the  Church,  and 
her  thankfulness  that  at  last  she  had  been  permitted  to 
decide  in  favour  of  the  Lord.  Patience  remembered 
her  as  the  vapid  daughter  of  rather  wealthy  parents 
who  in  her  own  day  had  been  devoted  to  society  and 
young  men.  She  was  very  faded.  Many  of  the  girls 
wept  in  sympathy,  and  Miss  Beale  mopped  her  eyes 
several  times. 

An  extremely  pretty  girl  stood  up,  a  girl  with  black 
hair  and  pale  blue  eyes  and  rich  pink  colour.  Patience 
regarded  her  satirically,  thinking  what  a  beauty  she 
would  be  if  properly  gowned.  Miss  Beale,  noting  her 
interest,  patted  her  hand  and  smiled. 

"  I  just  want  to  say,"  began  the  girl,  with  deep  ear- 
nestness, "  that  every  day  of  my  life  I  have  greater  con- 
fidence that  the  Lord  loves  me  and  hears  what  I  ask 
Him.  You  know  that  I  write  the  reports  of  the  Y.  W. 
C.  T.  U.,  and  of  course  I  have  to  get  them  printed  for 


286    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

nothing.  So  when  I  sit  down  to  write  them  I  just  ask 
the  Lord  to  tell  me  what  to  say  and  how  to  say  it,  and 
all  the  way  to  the  office  I  keep  asking  Him  to  tell  me 
what  to  say  to  the  editor  so  that  he  will  print  it  and 
help  our  great  cause  along.  And,  girls,  he  prints  it  every 
time,  and  only  yesterday  he  said  to  me  :  'I  like  your 
stuff  because  it 's  direct  and  to  the  point,  no  gush,  no 
rhetoric  —  it 's  plain  horse  sense.'  Now,  girls,  you 
need  not  think  I  say  that  to  compliment  myself.  I 
just  say  it  to  prove  that  the  Lord  writes  those  news- 
paper articles,  not  I." 

Patience  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  face  and  shook 
convulsively.  She  bit  her  lips  to  keep  from  laughing 
aloud  ;  she  wanted  to  scream. 

Suddenly  she  became  conscious  of  a  deep  murmur. 
Supposing  it  to  be  of  disapproval,  she  straightened  her 
mouth  and  dropped  her  handkerchief;  but  her  face 
was  scarlet,  her  eyes  full  of  tears.  The  girls  were  lean- 
ing forward,  regarding  her  earnestly.  Miss  Beale  leaned 
over  and  placed  her  arm  about  her. 

"  Speak,"  she  said  softly.     "  Don't  be  afraid." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  thinking  about?"  gasped 
Patience. 

"  Tell  us  what  is  in  your  heart,"  said  Miss  Beale,  in 
a  tremulous  voice. 

And,  "  Tell  us  !     Tell  us  !  "  came  from  the  girls. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying,"  said  Patience, 
freeing  herself  angrily.  "  Let  me  go."  She  was  trem- 
bling with  excitement.  Her  head  felt  very  light.  The 
blood  was  pounding  in  her  ears.  She  started  to  her 
feet,  meaning  to  rush  to  the  door ;  but  Miss  Beale  was 
too  quick  for  her.  She  caught  her  firmly  by  the  waist 
and  led  her  to  the  middle  of  the  space  at  the  head  of 
the  room. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    287 

"  I  know  she  will  speak,"  said  Miss  Beale.  "  Pa- 
tience, we  all  feel  our  awful  responsibility.  If  you  speak 
out  now,  you  will  be  saved.  If  your  timidity  over- 
comes you,  you  may  go  hence  and  never  hear  His  knock 
again." 

"  Speak  !  Speak  !  "  came  with  solemn  emphasis  from 
the  Y's. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  '11  speak,"  cried  Patience.  "And  sup- 
pose you  hear  me  out.  It  will  be  only  polite,  since 
you  have  forced  me  to  speak.  You  have  always  mis- 
understood me.  I  am  by  no  means  indifferent  to  the 
God  you  worship.  I  have  the  most  exalted  respect 
and  admiration  for  this  tremendous  creative  force  be- 
hind the  Universe,  a  respect  so  great  that  I  should 
never  presume  to  address  him  as  you  do  in  your  funny 
little  egoism.  Do  you  realise  that  this  magnificent 
Being  of  whose  essence  you  have  not  the  most  approxi- 
mate idea,  is  the  Creator,  not  only  of  this  but  of  count- 
less other  worlds  and  systems,  and  furthermore  of  the 
psychic  and  physical  laws  that  govern  them  and  of  the 
extraordinary  mystery  of  which  we  are  a  part,  and  which 
has  its  most  subtle  expression  in  the  Space  surrounding 
us  ?  And  yet  you,  atoms,  pigmies,  tiny  individual  mani- 
ifestations  of  a  great  correlative  force  called  human  na- 
ture, you  presume  to  address  this  stupendous  Being, 
and  stand  up  and  kneel  down  and  talk  to  It,  to  imagine 
that  It  listens  to  your  insignificant  wants,  —  that  It 
writes  newspaper  articles  !  Is  it  Christianity  that  has 
destroyed  the  sense  of  humour  in  its  disciples? 

"  In  each  of  you  is  a  shaft  from  the  great  dominating 
Force  —  that  is  quite  true,  and  it  is  for  you  to  develop 
that  force  —  character  —  and  rely  upon  it,  not  upon 
a  spiritual  lover,  as  weak  women  do  upon  some  unfor- 


288    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

tunate  man.  What  good  does  all  this  religious  senti- 
mentality do  you?  Your  brains  are  rotting.  You  have 
nothing  to  talk  about  to  intelligent  men.  No  wonder 
the  men  of  small  towns  get  away  as  soon  as  they  can, 
and  seek  the  intelligent  women  of  lower  strata.  Men 
are  naturally  brighter  than  women,  and  girls  of  your 
sort  deliberately  make  yourselves  as  limited  and  colour- 
less as  you  can.  Go,  make  yourselves  companions  for 
men,  if  you  would  make  the  world  better,  if  you  must 
improve  the  human  race.  Study  the  subjects  that 
interest  them,  that  fill  their  life ;  study  politics  and  the 
great  questions  of  the  day,  that  you  may  lead  them  to 
the  higher  ethical  plane  on  which  nature  has  placed 
you.  Quit  this  erotic  sentimentalising  over  an  abstract 
being  to  whom  you  must  be  the  profoundest  joke  of  his 
civilisation  —  " 

"Hush  !  "  shrieked  MissBeale.  For  some  moments 
Patience  had  been  obliged  to  raise  her  voice  above  the 
angry  mutterings  of  her  audience.  One  or  two  were 
sobbing  hysterically.  Miss  Scale's  cry  was  the  signal 
for  the  explosion  of  pent-up  excitement. 

"  Go  !  Go  !  "  cried  the  girls.  "  Go  out  of  this 
church  !  Blasphemer  !  Shame  !  Shame  !  " 

Patience  looked  out  undaunted  upon  the  sea  of 
flushed  angry  faces,  which  a  few  moments  before  had 
been  all  peace  and  love.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders, 
bowed  to  Miss  Beale,  who  was  staring  at  her  with  hor- 
rified eyes  in  a  livid  face,  and  walked  toward  the  door. 
The  girls  pressed  her  forward,  lest  she  should  speak 
again. 

"  We  have  a  right  as  churchwomen  to  hate  you," 
cried  one,  "  for  we  are  told  to  hate  the  devil,  and  you 
are  he  incarnate." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    289 

Patience  refused  to  accelerate  her  steps,  but  reached 
the  door  in  a  moment.  As  she  was  about  to  pass  out 
a  joyous  face  was  uplifted  to  hers.  It  belonged  to  a 
girl  still  sitting.  Her  lap  was  piled  with  loose  sheets 
of  paper.  There  was  an  excited  smirch  of  lead  on  her 
cheek.  Even  as  she  raised  her  head  and  spoke  she 
continued  writing.  "That  was  a  corker,"  she  whis- 
pered, "  the  biggest  story  I  Ve  had  in  weeks."  It  was 
Miss  Merrien. 


XVII 

PATIENCE  was  an  early  riser,  and  had  usually  read  the 
"  Day  "  through  before  Beverly  lounged  downstairs,  sleepy 
and  cross  and  masculine.  On  the  morning  after  her 
day  of  varied  experience  she  took  the  newspaper  into 
the  library  and  read  the  first  page  leisurely,  as  was  her 
habit.  The  news  of  the  world  still  interested  her  pro- 
foundly. Then  she  read  the  editorials,  and,  later, 
glanced  idly  at  the  headlines  of  the  "  stories."  The 
following  arrested  her  startled  eye  : 

AN  EARTHQUAKE  IN  MARIAVILLE  ! 

THE  GOOD  PEOPLE  ARE  OUTRAGED ! 

A  SENSATION  BY  THE  BEAUTIFUL  AND  BRILLIANT 

MRS.  BEVERLY  PEELE  ! 

The  story  covered  two  thirds  of  a  column.  Patience 
read  it  three  times  in  succession  without  stopping  to 
comment.  It  was  graphically  told,  much  exaggerated, 
and  as  carefully  climaxed  as  dramatic  fiction.  And  it 
was  interesting  reading.  Patience  decided  that  if  it 
had  not  been  about  herself  she  should  have  given 

19 


290    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

it  more  than  passing  attention.  Her  beauty  and  grace 
and  elegance,  her  grand  air,  were  described  with  enthu- 
siasm. Every  possible  point  of  contrast  was  made  to 
the  serious  and  unfashionable  Y's. 

At  first  Patience  was  horrified.  She  wondered  what 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Peele  would  say.  Beverly's  comments 
were  not  within  the  limitations  of  doubt. 

"  I  'm  in  for  it,"  she  thought.  Then  she  smiled. 
She  felt  the  same  thrill  she  had  experienced  when  the 
men  looked  askance  at  her  after  her  assault  upon  her 
mother.  The  Ego  ever  lifts  its  head  at  the  first  caress, 
and  quickly  becomes  as  insatiable  as  a  child  for  sweets. 
Patience  glanced  at  the  article  to  note  how  many  times 
her  name  —  in  small  capitals  —  sprang  forth  to  meet 
her  eyes.  She  imagined  Bourke  reading  it,  and  Mrs. 
Gallatin,  and  Mrs.  Lafarge,  and  many  others,  and  won- 
dered if  strangers  would  find  it  interesting ;  then, 
suddenly,  she  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  aloud. 

"  What  fools  we  mortals  be  !  "  she  thought.  "  And 
the  President  of  the  United  States  has  dozens  of  para- 
graphs written  about  him  every  day.  And  actors  and 
writers  are  paragraphed  ad  nauseam.  If  a  woman  is 
run  over  in  the  street  she  has  a  column,  and  if  she  goes 
to  a  hotel  and  commits  suicide,  she  has  two,  and  is  a 
raving  beauty.  Rosita  is  persecuted  for  stories.  The 
Ego  ought  to  have  its  ears  boxed  every  morning,  as 
some  old-fashioned  people  switch  their  children.  Well, 
here  comes  Beverly." 

Her  husband  entered,  and  for  the  first  time  in  many 
months  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  gave  him  a  little 
peck  on  his  cheek.  He  was  so  surprised  that  he 
forgot  to  pick  up  the  newspaper,  and  followed  her  at 
once  into  the  dining-room.  During  the  meal  she 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

talked  of  his  horses  and  his  farm,  and  even  offered 
to  take  a  drive  with  him.  He  was  going  to  White 
Plains  to  look  at  some  blooded  stock  which  was  to  be 
sold  at  auction,  and  promptly  invited  her  to  accompany 
him  ;  but  her  diplomacy  had  its  limits,  and  she  declined. 
However,  he  went  from  the  table  in  high  good  humour. 
When  she  left  him  in  the  library,  a  few  moments  later, 
he  was  arranging  the  scattered  sheets  of  the  "  Day," 
without  his  accustomed  comments  upon  "the  infernal 
manner  in  which  a  woman  always  left  a  newspaper." 

Patience  went  up  to  her  room  and  wrote  a  note  of 
apology  to  Miss  Beale.  She  was  half  way  through  a 
long  letter  to  Hal  when  she  heard  Beverly  bounding  up 
the  stair  three  steps  at  a  time. 

"The  cyclone  struck  Peele  Manor  at  10.25,"  sne 
said,  looking  at  the  clock.  "  Sections  of  the  fair  —  " 

Beverly  burst  in  without  ceremony. 

"What  the  hell  does  this  mean?"  he  cried,  bran- 
dishing the  newspaper.  His  dilating  nostrils  were  livid. 
The  rest  of  his  face  was  almost  black. 

"  Beverly,  you  will  certainly  have  apoplexy  or  burst 
a  blood  vessel,"  said  his  wife,  solicitously.  "  Think  of 
those  that  love  you  and  preserve  yourself —  " 

"  Those  that  love  me  be  damned  !  The  idea  of  my 
wife  —  my  wife  —  being  the  heroine  of  a  vulgar  news- 
paper story !  Her  name  out  in  a  headline  !  Mrs. 
Beverly  Peele  !  My  God  !  " 

"  God  was  the  cause  of  the  whole  trouble,"  said 
Patience,  flippantly.  "  I  thought  the  young  women 
were  entirely  too  intimate  with  him.  The  spectacle 
conjured  of  The  Almighty  with  his  sleeves  rolled  up 
grinding  out  copy  at  five  dollars  per  column  was  too 
much  for  me.  I  have  the  most  profound  admiration 


292    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

and  respect  for  the  Deity,  and  felt  called  upon  to 
defend  him  —  the  others  seemed  so  unconscious  of 
insult  —  " 

"  This  is  no  subject  for  a  joke,"  cried  Beverly,  who 
had  sworn  steadily  through  these  remarks.  "I  don't 
care  a  hang  if  you  had  a  reason  or  not  for  making  a 
public  speech  —  Christ !  —  it 's  enough  that  you  made 
it,  that  your  name 's  in  the  paper  —  my  wife's  name  ! 
What  will  my  father  and  mother  say?  " 

"They  will  not  swear.  A  few  of  the  Peeles  are 
decently  well  bred." 

"No  one  ever  gave  them  cause  to  swear  before. 
You  Ve  turned  this  family  upside  down  since  you  came 
into  it.  You  Ve  been  the  ruin  of  my  life.  I  wish  to 
God  I  'd  never  seen  you." 

"I  sincerely  wish  you  hadn't.  What  had  you  in- 
tended to  make  of  your  life  that  I  have  interfered 
with?" 

"  If  I  'd  married  a  woman  who  loved  me  I  'd  have 
been  a  better  man." 

"  I  wonder  how  many  weak  men  have  said  that  since 
the  world  began  !  You  were  twenty-six  when  I  married 
you,  and  I  cannot  see  that  there  has  been  any  change  in 
kind  since,  although  there  certainly  is  in  degree.  If 
you  had  married  the  ordinary  little  domestic  woman, 
you  would  have  been  happier,  but  you  would  not  have 
been  better,  for  you  possess  neither  soul  nor  intelli- 
gence. But  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  give  you  a  chance 
for  happiness.  Give  me  my  freedom,  and  look  about 
you  for  a  doll — " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  want  a  divorce  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  know  just  how  much  I  do." 

"  Well,  you  wont  get  it  —  by  God !     Do  you  under- 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    293 

stand  that  ?  You  Ve  no  cause,  and  you  '11  not  get 
any." 

"  There  should  be  a  law  made  for  women  who  —  who 
—  well,  like  myself." 

Her  husband  was  incapable  of  understanding  her. 
"Well, you  just  remember  that,"  he  said.  "You  don't 
get  a  divorce,  and  you  keep  out  of  the  newspapers,  or 
you  '11  be  sorry,"  and  he  slammed  the  door  and  strode 
away. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  after  Patience  heard  the  wheels 
of  his  cart.  At  the  same  time  the  train  stopped  below 
the  slope.  A  few  moments  later  she  saw  Miss  Merrien 
come  up  the  walk.  The  maid  brought  up  the  visitor's 
card,  and  with  it  a  note  from  Mr.  Field. 

DEAR  MRS.  BEVERLY  [it  read],  —  Forgive  me  —  but  you 
are  a  woman  of  destiny,  or  I  have  n't  studied  people  sixty 
years  for  nothing.  I  chose  to  be  the  first  —  the  scent  of 
the  old  war-horse  for  news,  you  know.  Peele  will  be 
furious,  but  I  can't  bother  about  a  trifle  like  that.  Just  give 
this  young  woman  an  interview,  and  oblige  your  old 
friend 

J.  E.  F. 

Patience  started  to  go  downstairs,  then  turned 
to  the  mirror  and  regarded  herself  attentively.  She 
looked  very  pretty,  remarkably  so,  as  she  always  did 
when  the  pink  was  in  her  cheeks;  but  her  morning 
gown  was  plain  and  not  particularly  becoming.  She 
changed  it,  after  some  deliberation,  for  a  house -robe 
of  pearl  grey  silk  with  a  front  of  pale  pink  chiffon 
hanging  straight  from  a  collar  of  cut  steel.  The  maid 
had  brought  her  some  pink  roses  from  the  greenhouse  ; 
she  fastened  one  in  the  coil  of  her  soft  pale  hair. 


294    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Then  she  smiled  at  her  reflection,  shook  out  her  train, 
and  rustled  softly  down  the  stair. 

Miss  Merrien  exclaimed  with  feminine  enthusiasm  as 
she  entered  the  library. 

"  Oh,  you  are  the  loveliest  woman  to  write  about," 
she  said.  "  I  do  a  lot  of  society  work,  and  I  am  so 
tired  of  describing  the  conventional  beauty.  And  that 
gown  !  I  'm  going  to  describe  every  bit  of  it.  Did  it 
come  from  Paris?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Patience,  amused  at  her  immediate  suc- 
cess. "  My  mother-in-law  brought  it  to  me  last  sum- 
mer —  but  perhaps  you  had  better  not  mention  Mrs. 
Peele  in  your  story." 

"  Well,  I  won't,  of  course,  if  you  don't  want  me  to. 
I  have  written  the  story  about  La  Rosita  for  the  Sun- 
day '  Day,'  and  I  did  not  hint  at  your  identity.  It  made 
a  good  story,  but  not  as  good  as  the  one  about  you. 
Mr.  Field  wrote  me  a  note  this  morning,  compliment- 
ing me,  and  told  me  to  come  up  here  and  interview 
you.  I  hope  you  don't  mind  very  much." 

"  I  have  n't  the  faintest  idea  whether  I  do  or  not. 
How  do  you  do  it?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  '11  just  ask  you  questions  and  you 
answer  them,  and  I  '11  put  it  all  down  in  shorthand,  and 
then  when  I  go  to  the  office  I'll  thresh  it  into  shape. 
You  can  be  sure  that  I  won't  say  anything  that  is  n't 
pleasant,  for  I  really  never  admired  any  one  half  so 
much." 

"  Very  well,  you  interview  me,  and  then  I  '11  inter- 
view you.  I  have  some  questions  to  ask  also." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  anything  you  like.  This  story,  by 
the  way,  is  to  be  in  the  Sunday  issue  on  the  Woman's 
Page.  Now  we  '11  begin.  Were  you  always  an  un- 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    295 

believer?  Tell  me  exactly  what  are  your  religious 
opinions." 

"  Oh,  dear  me  !  You  are  not  going  to  write  a  seri- 
ous analysis  of  me?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  '11  give  it  the  light  touch  so  that  it  won't 
bore  anybody.  It  is  to  be  called  '  A  Society  Woman 
Who  Thinks,'  and  will  be  read  with  interest  all  over 
America." 

"  But  I  am  not  a  society  woman." 

"  Well,  you  're  a  swell,  and  that 's  the  same  thing,  for 
this  purpose  anyhow.  The  Gardiner  Peeles  are  out  of 
sight,  and  I  have  heard  lots  of  times  how  beautifully 
you  entertain  in  summer  and  how  charmingly  you  gown 
yourself.  Tell  me  first  —  what  do  you  think  of  this 
everlasting  woman  question  ?  I  hate  the  very  echo  of 
the  thing,  but  we  '11  have  to  touch  on  it." 

"  Oh,  I  have  n't  given  much  thought  to  it,  except  as 
a  phase  of  current  history.  One  thing  is  positive,  I 
think :  we  must  adjust  our  individual  lives  without 
reference  to  any  of  the  problems  of  the  moment,  — 
Womanism,  Socialism,  the  Ethical  Question,  the  Mar- 
riage Question,  and  all  the  others  that  are  everlasting 
raging.  He  that  would  be  happy  must  deal  with  the 
great  primal  facts  of  life  —  and  these  facts  will  endure 
until  human  nature  is  no  more.  Moreover,  however 
much  she  may  reason,  nothing  can  eradicate  the  strong- 
est instinct  in  woman  —  that  she  can  find  happiness 
only  through  some  man." 

"  Good,"  said  Miss  Merrien.  "  I  'd  have  thought  the 
same  thing  if  I  'd  ever  had  time.  Now  tell  me  if  you 
have  any  religion  at  all." 

"  I  suppose  I  should  be  called  an  anarchist.  Don't 
be  alarmed :  I  mean  the  philosophical  or  spiritual  an- 


296    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

archist,  not  these  poor  maniarchists  that  are  merely  an 
objectionable  variety  of  lunatics.  The  religious  situa- 
tion is  this,  I  think :  Jesus  Christ  does  not  satisfy  the 
intellectual  needs  of  the  Nineteenth  Century.  And 
yet,  indisputably,  the  religionists  are  happier  than  the 
multiplying  scores  that  could  no  more  continue  in  the 
old  delusion  than  they  could  worship  idols  or  torture 
the  flesh.  Civilisation  needs  a  new  prophet,  and  he 
must  be  an  anarchist,  —  one  who  will  teach  the  govern- 
ment of  self  by  self,  the  government  of  man's  nature  by 
will,  which  in  its  turn  is  subservient  to  the  far  seeing 
brain.  Human  nature  is  anarchic  in  its  essence.  The 
child  never  was  born  that  was  brought  to  bend  to 
authority  without  effort.  We  are  still  children,  or  we 
should  not  need  laws  and  governments." 

"Wait  till  I  get  that  down." 

"  Of  course  these  are  only  individual  opinions.  I 
don't  claim  any  value  for  them,  and  should  never  have 
thought  of  airing  them  if  you  hadn't  asked  me.  For 
my  part  I  'm  glad  I  live  in  this  imperfect  chaotic  age. 
When  we  can  all  do  exactly  as  we  please  and  won't 
even  remember  how  to  want  to  do  anything  wrong  — 
Awful !  " 

"But  you  said  the  advanced  thinkers  needed  this 
new  religion  to  make  them  happy." 

"Their  happiness  will  consist  in  the  tremendous 
effort  to  reach  the  difficult  goal.  That  will  take  cen- 
turies, just  as  the  spiritualised  socialism  of  Jesus  Christ 
has  taken  twenty  centuries,  and  only  imperfectly  pos- 
sessed one  third  of  the  globe.  When  anarchy  is  a  cold 
hard  fact  —  well,  I  suspect  the  anarchists  will  suddenly 
discover  that  ennui  is  in  their  vitals,  and  will  gently 
yawn  each  other  to  death.  Then  the  tadpoles  will 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    297 

begin  over  again ;  or  perhaps  there  will  then  be  men- 
tal and  moral  developments  that  we  in  our  present  limi- 
tations cannot  conceive.  Have  n't  you  had  enough?" 

"  No,  no.     I  Ve  a  dozen  questions  more." 

Miss  Merrien,  like  all  good  newspaper  reporters,  was 
an  amateur  lawyer  and  a  harmless  hypnotist.  In  an 
hour  she  had  extracted  Patience's  views  of  society, 
books,  dress,  public  questions,  and  the  actors  in  the 
great  national  theatre,  the  Capitol  at  Washington. 

"  Oh,  this  is  magnificent,"  she  announced,  when  the 
pages  had  been  folded.  "  Now  can  I  look  at  the 
house?" 

"  We  will  have  luncheon  first.  No,  don't  protest. 
I  am  delighted.  Mr.  Peele  is  away  for  the  day, 
otherwise  I  fear  you  would  not  have  had  this  interview." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  believe  in  the  submission  of  wives, 
then?" 

"  I  Ve  never  thought  much  about  it,"  said  Patience, 
indifferently.  "  There  is  too  much  fuss  made  about  it 
all.  When  a  man  commands  his  wife  to  do  a  thing  she 
does  not  care  to  do,  and  when  a  woman  does  what  she 
knows  will  displease  her  husband,  it  is  time  for  them  to 
separate." 

"Oh,  that  is  too  simple.  It  wouldn't  do  to  re- 
duce the  woman  question  to  a  rule  of  three.  What 
would  all  the  reformers  do  ?  And  the  poor  polemical 
novelists  !  Oh,  these  are  the  famous  portraits,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"  You  can  look  at  them  if  the  luncheon  is  bad,"  said 
Patience,  as  they  took  their  seats  at  table.  "  I  'm  not 
a  very  good  housekeeper,  although  I  actually  did  take 
some  lessons  of  Miss  Mairs.  And  sometimes  I  forget 
to  order  luncheon.  I  did  to-day." 


298    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

But  the  luncheon  proved  to  be  a  very  good  one,  and 
Miss  Merrien  did  it  justice,  while  Patience  explained 
the  portraits.  Afterward  she  showed  her  guest  over  the 
lower  part  of  the  house.  Then  they  went  back  to  the 
library,  and  Patience  had  her  interview. 

"Tell  me  exactly  how  does  a  woman  begin  on  a 
newspaper?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  different  ones  have  different  experiences,"  said 
Miss  Merrien,  vaguely.  "  Sometimes  you  have  letters, 
and  are  put  on  as  a  fashion  or  society  reporter,  or  to 
get  interviews  with  famous  women,  or  to  go  and  ask 
prominent  people  their  opinion  on  a  certain  subject 
—  for  a  symposium,  you  know;  like  'What  Would 
You  do  if  You  Knew  that  the  World  was  to  End  in 
Three  Days?'  or,  'Is  Society  Society?'  I  have  writ- 
ten dozens  of  symposiums.  Sometimes  you  do  free- 
lance work,  just  pick  up  what  you  can  and  trust  to  luck 
to  catch  on.  But  of  course  you  must  have  the  nose  for 
news.  I  was  at  a  matinee  one  day  and  sat  in  front  of 
two  society  women.  Between  the  acts  they  talked  about 
a  prominent  woman  of  their  set  who  was  getting  a  di- 
vorce from  her  husband  so  quietly  that  no  newspaper 
had  suspected  it.  They  also  joked  about  the  fact  that 
her  lawyer  was  an  old  lover.  I  knew  this  was  a  tip,  and 
a  big  one.  I  wrote  all  the  names  on  my  cuff,  and  be- 
fore the  matinee  was  over  I  was  down  at  the  '  Day '  and 
had  turned  in  my  tip  to  the  City  editor.  He  sent  a 
reporter  to  the  lawyer  to  bluff  him  into  admitting  the 
truth.  The  next  day  we  had  a  big  story,  and  after  that 
the  editor  gave  me  work  regularly." 

"  How  much  do  you  make  a  week?  " 

"  Sometimes  forty,  sometimes  not  twenty ;  but  I  aver- 
age pretty  well  and  get  along.  Still,  when  you  have  to 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    299 

lay  by  for  sickness  and  vacations,  and  put  about  one 
half  on  your  back  it  doesn't  amount  to  much.  You 
see,  a  newspaper  woman  must  dress  well,  must  make  a 
big  bluff.  If  she  does  n't  look  successful  she  won't  be, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  she  could  n't  get  inside 
a  smart  house  if  she  looked  shabby.  And  then  she  's 
got  to  eat  good  nourishing  food,  or  she  never  could 
stand  the  work.  Of  course  there 's  got  to  be  economy 
somewhere,  so  I  live  in  a  hall  bedroom  and  make  my 
own  coffee  in  the  morning.  Still,  I  don't  complain, 
for  I  do  like  the  work.  If  I  had  to  go  back  home  I  'd 
ruin  the  happiness  of  the  entire  family." 

"What  do  you  look  forward  to? — I  mean  what 
ultimate?  You  don't  want  to  be  a  reporter  always, 
I  suppose.  Everybody  is  striving  for  some  top 
notch." 

"  Oh,  maybe  I  '11  become  Sunday  editor,  or  I  might 
fall  in  with  somebody  that  wanted  to  start  a  woman's 
newspaper,  or  magazine  —  you  never  can  tell.  There 
are  n't  many  good  berths  for  women.  Of  course  there 
are  a  good  many  very  bright  newspaper  women,  and  it 's 
a  toss  up  who  goes  to  the  top." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  take  matrimony  into  considera- 
tion." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  deny  I  get  so  tired  sometimes  that  I  'd 
be  only  too  glad  to  have  a  man  take  care  of  me.  I 
guess  we  all  look  forward  to  that,  more  or  less.  I  think 
I  'd  always  work,  but  not  so  hard.  It  would  make  all 
the  difference  in  the  world  if  you  knew  some  one 
else  was  paying  the  bills.  And  then,  you  see,  we  go  to 
pieces  in  eight  or  ten  years.  A  man  is  good  for  hard 
newspaper  work  until  he  's  forty,  but  we  women  are 
made  to  be  taken  care  of,  and  that 's  a  fact.  We  take 


joo    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

turns  having  nervous  prostration.  I  have  n't  had  it 
yet,  but  I  'm  looking  cheerfully  forward  to  it." 

"  Now  I  want  to  tell  you,"  said  Patience,  "that  I  am 
going  to  be  a  newspaper  woman." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  Mrs.  Peele  !  Excuse  me,  but  you 
belong  here.  Your  role  is  that  of  the  chatelaine  in 
exquisite  French  gowns  and  an  air  half  of  languor,  half 
of  pride.  You  were  not  made  for  work." 

"  That  is  very  pretty,  but  I  suspect  you  don't  want 
to  lose  me  for  copy." 

"  Well,  I  don't  deny  it.  I  wish  you  'd  keep  the  ball 
rolling,  and  give  me  a  story  a  month." 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  've  given  you  my  last.  In  a  week  or 
two  I  shall  be  a  chatelaine  in  a  pink  and  grey  gown  no 
longer,  but  a  humble  applicant  for  work  in  Mr.  Field's 
office." 

" Is  it  possible  that  you  mean  it?  " 

"  Do  I  look  as  if  I  were  joking?  " 

"You  don't  look  unhappy — Pardon  me  —  but  — 
but  —  does  he  beat  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Patience,  laughing  outright,  "he 
does  n't  beat  me.  I  have  better  grounds  for  desertion 
than  that.  Do  you  think  you  would  do  me  a  favour? 
I  shall  have  to  slip  away.  He  would  never  let  me  go 
with  a  trunk.  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  let  me  send 
you  a  box  of  things  every  few  days.  That  will  excite 
no  comment  among  the  servants,  as  we  are  always 
sending  clothes  to  the  poor.  May  I  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  may.  I  '11  do  everything  I  can  to 
help  you.  But  —  I  can't  imagine  you  out  of  this  envi- 
ronment. Don't  you  hate  to  give  it  up,  —  all  this 
luxury,  this  ease,  this  atmosphere?" 

"  Yes,  I  like  it  all.     I  'm  a  sybarite,  fast  enough. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    301 

But  I  've  weighed  it  all  in  the  balance,  and  Peele  Manor 
stays  up.  I  have  a  hundred  dollars  or  so,  and  that  will 
last  me  for  a  time.  I  '11  give  it  to  you  to  take  care  of 
for  me.  I  never  was  wealthy,  but  I  have  no  idea  of 
economy.  I  don't  think  I  should  like  a  hall  room 
though.  Are  the  others  so  very  expensive?  " 

"  They  are  if  you  have  a  good  address,  and  that 's 
very  important.  And  you  want  to  be  in  a  house  with  a 
handsome  parlour." 

"  I  have  no  friends,  —  none  that  will  come  to  see 
me." 

"  Oh,  you  '11  make  friends.  You  're  an  awfully  sweet 
woman.  I  can't  bear  to  think  —  Well,  there  's  no 
use  saying  any  more  about  it.  I  expect  you  're  the 
sort  that  knows  your  own  mind.  I  should  like  to  keep 
on  seeing  you  a  great  lady,  but  if  you  can't  be  a  happy 
one  I  suppose  you  are  right.  Well,  I  '11  stand  by  you 
through  thick  and  thin,  and  I'll  show  you  the  ropes. 
Now  I  must  get  back  to  the  office  and  work  up  my 
story.  Here  's  my  address.  There 's  a  spare  room 
on  the  floor  above  mine.  If  you  're  in  dead  earnest 
I  'd  better  take  it  right  away ;  then  I  can  unpack  your 
things  and  hang  them  up.  But  —  but  —  do  you  really 
mean  it?" 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  You  know  Mr.  Field  personally,  don't  you?  " 

"Very  well,  indeed;  and  he  told  me  when  I  was 
sixteen  that  he  should  make  a  newspaper  woman  of 
me." 

"  Oh,  well,  then,  you  '11  have  a  lot  of  push,  and  your 
road  won't  be  as  hard  as  some  —  not  by  a  long  short. 
About  six  out  of  every  ten  newspaper  women  either  go 
to  the  wall  or  to  the  bad.  It  is  a  mixture  of  knack 


302    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

and  pluck  as  much  as  brains  that  carries  the  favoured 
minority  through.  You  have  brains  and  pluck,  and 
you  '11  have  push,  so  you  ought  to  get  there.  About 
the  knack  of  course  I  can't  tell.  Good-bye." 


XVIII 

THE  evening  mail  brought  from  Mrs.  Peele  to  her  son  a 
note  which  he  read  with  a  rumbling  accompaniment, 
then  tossed  to  Patience. 

"  Do  you  intend  to  permit  your  wife  to  disgrace  your 
family?"  it  read.  "If  I  had  my  way  that  abominable 
paper,  the  '  Day,'  should  never  enter  this  house  —  nor  any 
other  paper  that  dealt  in  personalities.  I  literally  writhe 
every  time  I  see  my  name  —  your  father's  honoured  name 
—  in  the  society  columns.  You  may,  then,  perhaps,  im- 
agine my  feelings  when  your  father  handed  me  the  '  Day ' 
this  morning  with  his  finger  on  that  outrageous  column. 
He  was  speechless  with  wrath,  and  will  personally  call  Mr. 
Field  to  account.  I  am  in  bed  with  a  violent  headache,  in 
consequence,  and  dictating  this  letter  to  Honora.  But 
although  I  deeply  feel  for  you,  my  beloved  son,  I  must 
insist  that  you  assert  your  authority  with  your  wrong- 
headed  wife  and  command  her  to  refrain  from  disgracing 
this  family.  I  don't  wish  to  reproach  you,  but  I  cannot 
help  saying  that  it  is  always  a  dangerous  experiment  to 
marry  beneath  one.  This  girl  is  not  one  of  us,  she  never 
can  be ;  for,  not  to  mention  that  we  know  nothing  whatever 
of  her  family,  she  comes  from  that  dreadful  savage  new 
Western  country.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  has  been 
clever  enough  to  superficially  adapt  herself  to  our  ways,  I 
always  knew  that  she  would  break  out  somewhere  —  I 
always  said  so  to  Honora.  But  I  don't  wish  to  add  to 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    303 

your  own  sorrow.  I  know  how  you,  with  all  your  proud 
Peele  reserve,  must  feel.  Only,  my  son,  use  your  authority 
in  the  future." 


Patience  finished  this  letter  with  a  disagreeable  low- 
ering of  the  brows.  She  made  no  comment,  however, 
but  opened  a  book  and  refused  to  converse  with  her 
husband. 

On  Sunday  morning  she  found  three  columns  on  the 
Woman's  Page  of  the  "Day"  devoted  to  her  beauty, 
her  intellect,  her  gowns,  and  her  opinions.  It  was 
embellished  with  a  photograph  of  Peele  Manor  and  a 
sketch  of  herself,  which  Miss  Merrien  had  evidently 
made  from  memory.  When  Beverly  came  down  she 
handed  the  newspaper  to  him  at  once,  to  read  the  story 
with  the  raw  temper  of  early  morning.  She  hoped  that 
Mrs.  Peele  would  read  it  in  similar  conditions. 

After  he  had  gone  through  the  headlines  he  let  the 
newspaper  fall  to  the  floor,  and  stared  at  her  with  a 
face  so  livid  that  for  a  moment  she  felt  as  if  looking 
upon  the  risen  dead.  Then  gradually  it  blackened, 
only  the  nostrils  remaining  white. 

"So  you  deliberately  defy  me?"  he  articulated. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  watching  him  narrowly.  She 
thought  that  he  might  strike  her. 

"You  did  it  on  purpose  to  drive  me  crazy?" 

"I  had  no  object  whatever,  except  that  it  pleased 
me  to  be  interviewed.  Understand  at  once  that  I  shall 
do  exactly  as  I  please  in  all  things.  This  is  not  the 
country  for  petty  household  tyrants.  I  don't  doubt 
there  are  many  men  in  this  world  whom  I  should  be 
glad  to  treat  with  deference  and  respect  if  I  happened 
to  be  married  to  one  of  them ;  but  with  men  like  you 


304    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

there  is  only  one  course  to  take.  I  have  asked  you 
to  let  me  live  abroad.  If  you  consent  to  this,  it  may 
save  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  the  future ;  for,  I 
repeat,  I  shall  in  all  things  do  exactly  as  I  choose." 

"We'll  see  whether  you  will  or  not,"  he  roared. 
"  You  '11  do  as  I  say,  or  I  '11  lock  you  up." 

"Oh,  you  will  not  lock  me  up.  You  are  way 
behind  your  times,  Beverly.  There  is  no  law  in 
the  United  States  to  compel  me  to  obey  you." 

"  I  '11  stop  your  allowance.  You  '11  never  get  another 
cent  from  me." 

"  That  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it.  Now,  I 
ask  you  for  the  last  time,  Will  you  let  me  travel?  " 

"  No  ! "  he  shouted,  and  he  rushed  from  the  room. 


BOOK    IV 


20 


BOOK    IV 


I 

Miss  MERRIEN  lived  in  West  Forty-fourth  Street,  near 
Broadway.  Ten  days  after  her  visit  to  Peele  Manor 
Patience  rang  the  door-bell  of  the  house  that  was  to  be 
her  new  home,  one  of  a  long  impersonal  row. 

The  maid  that  answered  her  ring  handed  her  a  note 
from  Miss  Merrien,  and  conducted  her  up  to  a  hall 
room  on  the  third  floor.  Patience  closed  the  door, 
and  looked  about  her  with  the  sensation  of  the  ship- 
wrecked. For  a  moment  she  was  strongly  tempted  to 
flee  back  to  Peele  Manor.  The  room  was  about  eight 
feet  square,  and  furnished  with  a  folding-bed,  which 
was  likewise  a  bureau,  and  with  a  washstand,  a  table, 
and  two  chairs.  The  furniture  and  carpet  were  new, 
and  there  were  pretty  blue  and  white  curtains  on  the 
window.  Nevertheless  the  tiny  room  with  its  modern 
contrivances  was  the  symbol  of  poverty  and  struggle 
and  an  entirely  new  existence.  Her  second  impulse 
was  to  sit  down  on  a  chair  and  cry ;  but  she  set  her 
teeth,  and  read  Miss  Merrien's  note  instead. 

I  am  so  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  meet  you  [it  read]; 
but  I  am  a  slave,  you  know.  Before  I  was  out  of  bed 
this  morning  I  received  an  assignment  to  go  to  a  woman's 
club  meeting  at  eleven.  But  I  '11  get  back  in  time  to  go 


308    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

down  to  the  shop  with  you.  Don't  get  blue  —  if  you  can 
help  it.  Remember  that  every  woman  feels  the  same  way 
when  she  first  makes  the  break  for  self-support ;  and  that 
your  chances  are  better  than  those  of  most.  There 's  a 
little  restaurant  round  the  corner  —  the  maid  will  show  you 
—  where  you  can  get  your  luncheon.  Au  revoir.  I  'm  so 
glad  the  sun  is  out. 

ANNA  CHETWYNDE  MERRIEN. 

P.  S.  Your  clothes  are  in  the  closet  in  the  hall.  The 
key  is  in  the  washstand  drawer. 

Patience  felt  in  better  cheer  after  reading  Miss 
Merrien's  kindly  greeting,  but  the  day  dragged  along 
very  heavily.  She  went  out  and  bought  all  the  news- 
papers, and  studied  them  attentively  for  hints ;  but 
they  did  not  tell  her  inexperience  anything,  and  after 
a  time  she  let  them  fall  to  the  floor  and  sat  staring  at 
the  blank  windows  opposite.  For  the  first  time  doubts 
assailed  her.  She  had  been  so  full  of  young  confidence, 
and  pride  in  her  brains  and  health  and  courage,  that 
she  had  not  regarded  the  issue  of  her  struggle  with  the 
world  in  the  light  of  a  problem ;  but  face  to  face  with 
the  practical  details,  she  felt  short  of  breath  and  weak 
in  the  knees. 

At  two  o'clock  Miss  Merrien  came  in,  looking  very 
tired.  There  were  black  scoops  under  her  eyes,  and 
the  lines  about  her  mouth  were  strongly  accentuated. 
But  she  smiled  brightly  as  Patience  rose  to  greet  her. 

"Well,  you  are  here,"  she  said.  "I  changed  my 
mind  fifty  times  about  your  coming,  but  on  the  whole 
I  thought  you  would.  Fortunately  I  have  nothing  on 
hand  for  this  afternoon.  I  '11  rest,  and  then  go  down 
with  you  to  the  shop.  Oh,  I  am  so  tired,  my  dear. 
Can  I  lie  down  on  your  bed  awhile?" 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    309 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  learn  how  to  open  it,"  said 
Patience,  who  was  wondering  if  her  fair  face  was  to 
become  scooped  and  lined. 

Miss  Merrien  deftly  manipulated  the  bed,  loosened 
her  frock,  and  flung  herself  full  length. 

"  I  spent  all  day  yesterday  and  half  the  night  tramp- 
ing over  Brooklyn  hunting  up  facts  in  the  case  of  that 
girl  who  was  found  dead  in  a  tenement-house  bed  in  a 
grand  ball  gown.  A  great  story  that,  but  it  has  done 
me  up.  Tell  me  —  how  do  you  feel?" 

"  Oh,  I  'm  glad  I  'm  here,  but  I  wish  it  was  six 
months  from  now." 

"  Of  course  you  do.  That 's  the  way  we  all  feel. 
But  you  '11  soon  swing  into  place,  and  be  too  busy  to 
think.  I  do  wish  you  could  get  work  in  the  office,  so 
that  you  could  keep  regular  hours  and  meals,  and  not 
lose  your  good  looks ;  but  there  's  no  berth  of  that  sort. 
I  tell  you  it  is  a  sad  day  when  a  girl  under  twenty-five 
sees  the  lines  coming.  The  Revolting  Sisterhood  say 
that  the  next  century  is  to  be  ours;  but  I  doubt  it. 
Men  lighten  our  burdens  a  little  now,  but  I  'm  afraid 
they  '11  hate  us  if  we  worry  and  supplant  them  any 
further.  Well,  I  'm  going  to  take  a  nap.  Wake  me 
promptly  at  3.10." 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  fell  asleep  immediately. 
The  lines  grew  fainter  as  she  slept,  and  the  hair  fell 
softly  about  her  face.  Patience  reflected  gratefully  that 
three  months  of  absolute  leisure  and  peace  of  mind 
would  give  back  to  the  girl  all  her  freshness  and 
rounded  contours.  At  ten  minutes  past  three  she 
awakened  her.  Miss  Merrien  sat  up  with  a  sigh. 

"I  feel  better,  though.  Cultivate  those  cat-naps. 
They  refresh  you  wonderfully.  Now,  we  '11  go." 


310    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 


II 

THEY  went  down  town  on  the  Elevated,  leaving  it  at 
Park  Row.  Patience  was  so  much  interested  in  the 
great  irregular  mass  of  buildings  surrounding  City  Hall 
Square,  at  the  dense  throngs  packing  the  crooked  side 
streets,  at  the  fakirs  with  their  nonsensical  wares,  at  the 
bewildering  array  of  gilt  newspaper  names  on  the  rows 
and  stories  of  polished  windows,  that  she  forgot  her 
errand  for  the  moment,  and  was  nearly  run  over. 

"  Yes,  this  is  the  heart  of  New  York,  sure  enough," 
assented  Miss  Merrien.  "  All  those  big  buildings  over 
there  are  on  the  famous  Newspaper  Row.  Brooklyn 
Bridge  is  just  behind.  This  is  the  Post  Office  on  the 
right,  and  that  flat  building  in  the  square  is  the  City 
Hall.  I  tell  you  when  you  get  down  here,  the  rest 
of  New  York,  including  all  the  smart  folk,  seems  pretty 
insignificant." 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Patience,  with  a  sudden  sinking  of 
the  heart,  "there  is  the  '  Day '  building." 

"  That  is  our  shop.     Now,  brace  up." 

Patience  needed  the  admonition.  She  forgot  City 
Hall  Park.  All  her  doubts  returned,  with  others  in 
their  wake.  She  knew  something  of  the  snobbery  of 
the  world.  As  Mrs.  Beverly  Peele  she  had  been  an 
object  of  respectful  interest  to  Mr.  Field.  What  would 
she  be  as  an  applicant  for  work?  True,  he  had  been 
kind  to  her  when  she  was  a  small  nobody,  but  that 
might  have  been  merely  a  caprice. 

They  climbed  up  two  narrow  stairs  in  an  ugly  old 
building,  and  entered  a  large  gas-lit  room  full  of  desks. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    311 

Many  young  men  were  writing  or  moving  about ;  several 
were  in  their  shirt  sleeves. 

"This  is  the  City  room,"  said  Miss  Merrien,  "and 
these  are  the  reporters.  Those  men  in  that  little  room 
there  are  the  editors  and  editorial  writers.  Mr.  Field's 
room  is  just  beyond.  Now  send  your  card  in  by  this 
boy.  The  Chief's  harder  to  see  than  the  President  of 
the  United  States,  but  I  guess  he  '11  see  you." 

Patience  gave  the  boy  her  card,  and  at  the  end  of 
half  an  hour,  during  which  she  was  much  stared  at  by 
some  of  the  men  and  totally  ignored  by  others,  the  boy 
returned  and  conducted  her  to  Mr.  Field's  office. 

It  was  a  typical  editor's  den  of  the  old-fashioned 
type.  A  big  desk  covered  with  papers,  a  revolving  chair, 
and  one  other  chair  completed  the  furniture.  A  large 
cat  was  walking  about,  switching  its  tail.  The  floor  was 
bare.  The  light  straggled  down  between  the  tall 
buildings  surrounding,  and  entered  through  small  win- 
dows. It  was  Mr.  Field's  pride  to  have  the  greatest 
newspaper  and  the  most  unpretentious  "  shop "  in 
the  United  States. 

He  rose  as  Patience  entered,  his  eyes  twinkling. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  as  he  handed  her  the  extra  chair, 
"  there  's  a  mighty  row  on,  is  n't  there  ?  Peele  has 
been  here,  and  now  we  do  not  speak  as  we  pass  by.  But 
we  had  n't  had  a  good  woman  sensation  for  a  month. 
I  tried  to  explain  that  to  Peele,  but  it  did  n't  seem  to 
impress  him.  I  suppose  you  've  come  to  beg  for 
mercy." 

"No  —  I  have  n't  come  for  that." 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter?  I  never  saw  you  look 
the  least  bit  rattled  before.  You  are  always  the  young 
queen  with  a  court  of  us  old  fellows  at  your  feet.  But 


312    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

tell  me ;  you  know  there 's  nothing  I  would  n't  do  for 
you." 

Patience  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"  Oh,  you  make  it  easier  —  I  Ve  been  horribly 
frightened.  But  I  '11  get  to  the  point  —  I  suppose 
you  're  very  busy  down  here.  Can  I  have  ten 
minutes?  " 

He  laughed.  "  We  are  usually  what  you  might  call 
busy  in  this  office,  but  you  may  have  twenty  minutes. 
Take  your  time." 

"  Well,  it 's  this  :  I  Ve  left  Peele  Manor  for  good  and 
all,  and  I  want  to  be  a  newspaper  woman." 

Mr.  Field's  shaggy  white  brows  rushed  up  his  fore- 
head. His  black  eyes  expanded. 

"  My  God !  What  did  you  make  such  a  break  as 
that  for?" 

"  There  are  many  reasons.  I  can't  give  them  all. 
But  all  the  same  I  Ve  left,  and  I  'm  not  going  back." 

"Well,  your  reasons  must  be  good,  for  you  had  a 
delightful  position,  and  you  became  it.  Are  you  sure 
you  are  not  acting  rashly?" 

"  I  Ve  thought  and  thought  and  thought  about  it.  I 
can't  understand  why  I  did  n't  leave  before.  I  suppose 
my  ideas  and  intentions  did  n't  crystallise  until  I  met 
Miss  Merrien.  She  has  been  very  kind.  I  sent  my 
clothes  to  her  by  degrees ;  she  engaged  a  room  for  me 
in  her  house ;  we  are  going  to  cook  together ;  and  I 
have  given  her  what  money  I  have  to  take  care  of." 

"Well,  well,  you  have  acted  deliberately.  I  don't 
know  that  I  am  so  much  surprised,  after  all,  and  I  '11 
say  nothing  to  persuade  you  to  go  back.  I  respect 
your  courage  and  independence,  and  I  '11  do  all  I  can. 
I  have  n't  the  slightest  idea  what  you  can  do,  but  we  '11 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    313 

find  out."  He  leaned  forward  and  patted  her  hand. 
Patience  had  one  moment  of 'painful  misgiving,  but 
again  she  had  misjudged  him.  "  If  you  get  discouraged, 
just  remember  that  the  old  man  at  the  helm  is  your 
friend  and  won't  let  you  go  under." 

"  I  'm  sure  you  're  awfully  good,"  said  Patience, 
tears  of  contrition  and  gratitude  in  her  eyes.  "  I  knew 
you  would." 

Mr.  Field  touched  a  bell.     A  boy  entered. 

"  If  Mr.  Steele  is  still  in  the  office  ask  him  to  step 
here,"  said  the  chief. 

"  Steele  is  the  editor  of  the  Evening  '  Day, '  "  he  ex- 
plained, "  and  has  a  remarkable  faculty  for  discovering 
other  people's  abilities." 

Patience  expected  to  see  a  man  of  middle  years  and 
business-like  demeanour.  She  stared  in  amazement  as 
a  young  man  under  thirty  entered  and  was  presented. 
He  was  closely  built,  but  held  himself  carelessly.  His 
smooth  rather  square  face  was  very  pale,  and  despite 
the  irregularity  of  feature,  bore  an  odd  resemblance 
to  the  Greek  fauns.  The  mouth  was  large  and  full,  the 
eyes  large,  dark  blue,  and  very  cold.  His  fashionable 
attire  accentuated  the  antiquity  of  his  face  and  head. 

"  Mr.  Steele,"  said  Mr.  Field,  "  this  is  Mrs.  Beverly 
Peele,  of  whom  you  have  heard  so  much  lately.  She 
has  made  up  her  mind  to  support  herself.  When  she 
was  a  little  girl  I  told  her  that  I  should  one  day  make 
a  newspaper  woman  of  her,  and  she  has  come  to  hold 
me  to  my  word  —  much  to  my  satisfaction.  I  put  her 
in  your  hands,  and  feel  confident  you  will  make  a  suc- 
cess of  her." 

Patience  expected  to  see  a  look  of  blank  surprise 
cross  the  young  editor's  face,  but  she  did  not  know  the 


314    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

modern  newspaper  youth.  Mr.  Steele  could  not  have 
displayed  less  emotion  had  the  new-comer  been  a  young 
woman  with  letters  from  Posy  County,  Illinois.  He 
merely  bowed  to  her,  then  to  his  chief.  Patience  rose 
at  once. 

"  I  won't  keep  you,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Field.  "  I  '11 
only  thank  you  again,  and  promise  to  work  as  hard  as 
Miss  Merrien." 

"  I  have  n't  the  slightest  doubt  of  your  success. 
Always  remember  that,"  said  Mr.  Field.  Patience  saw 
Mr.  Steele's  eyebrow  give  a  slight  involuntary  jerk; 
but  it  was  immediately  controlled,  and  he  bowed  her 
through  the  door. 

"We  had  better  go  upstairs  to  the  evening  room," 
he  said.  "  There  is  no  one  there  at  present." 

Patience  followed  him  up  a  precipitous  stairway  into 
a  walled-off  section  of  the  composing-room. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said  politely,  but  Patience  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  felt  terrified  and  humble.  This 
young  man,  of  whom  she  had  never  heard  before,  had 
the  air  of  a  superior  being,  omnipotent  in  her  destiny. 
His  manner  conveyed  that  he  was  not  one  whit  im- 
pressed by  the  fact  that  she  had  stepped  down  from  the 
Sacred  Reservation,  took  not  the  faintest  interest  in 
her  as  a  pretty  woman.  She  was  merely  a  young 
person  particularly  recommended  by  his  chief,  and  as 
such  it  was  his  duty  to  give  her  consideration. 

He  took  a  chair  opposite  her  own,  and  she  felt  as  if 
those  classic  guileless  eyes  were  exploring  her  innermost 
brain. 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  "  he  asked  coldly. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  she  said  desperately,  "absolutely 
nothing.  I  suppose  you  feel  like  remarking  that  the 
'  Day '  is  not  a  kindergarten." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    315 

"  Well,  it  certainly  is  not.  Nevertheless,  as  Mr.  Field 
thinks  that  you  have  ability,  and  wishes  you  to  write  for 
his  paper,  I,  of  course,  shall  do  all  I  can  to  abet  him. 
I  shall  begin  by  giving  you  a  few  words  of  advice. 
Have  you  a  good  memory;  or  should  you  prefer  to 
write  them  down?  " 

He  spoke  very  slowly,  as  if  he  had  a  deep  respect 
for  the  value  of  words. 

"  I  have  read  a  great  deal,"  said  Patience,  proudly, 
"  and  my  memory  is  very  good  indeed." 

There  was  a  faint  twitching  of  one  corner  of  Mr. 
Steele's  mouth,  but  he  continued  in  the  same  business- 
like tone :  — 

"Read  the  'Day'  through  carefully,  morning  and 
evening.  Observe  the  style  in  which  facts  are  presented, 
and  the  general  tone  and  atmosphere  of  the  paper. 
Cultivate  that  general  style,  not  your  own.  Remember 
that  you  are  not  on  this  newspaper  to  make  an  individual 
reputation,  but  to  become,  if  possible,  a  unit  of  a  har- 
monious whole,  and  to  give  the  public  the  best  news 
in  the  style  to  which  this  newspaper  has  accustomed  it. 
When  you  are  sent  on  an  assignment  remember  that 
you  are  to  gather  facts  —  facts.  Keep  your  eyes  open, 
and  cultivate  the  faculty  of  observation  for  all  it  is  worth. 
When  you  have  gathered  these  facts  put  them  into  as 
picturesque  a  shape  as  you  choose  —  or  as  you  can.  But 
no  rhetoric,  no  rhapsodies,  no  flights,  no  theories.  If 
the  facts  admit  of  being  treated  humorously,  treat  them 
in  that  way,  by  all  means,  —  that  is,  if  you  can  imitate  a 
man's  humour,  not  a  woman's  flippancy.  A  good  many 
women  can.  And  never  forget  that  it  must  not  be  your 
humour  but  the  inherent  humour  of  the  subject.  Be 
concise.  When  you  feel  disposed  to  say  a  thing  in  ten 


316    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

words  say  it  in  five.  That  is  all  I  can  think  of  at 
present.  Be  here  at  eight  o'clock  to-morrow,  and  I  will 
give  you  an  assignment." 

He  rose,  and  Patience  felt  herself  dismissed.  She 
sat  for  a  minute  looking  at  him  with  angry  eyes.  Not 
even  in  the  early  days  of  her  married  life  had  she  been 
so  patronised  as  by  this  unknown  young  man.  She  felt 
as  if  he  had  plucked  her  individuality  out  with  his  thumb 
and  finger  and  contemptuously  tossed  it  aside. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  he  asked  indifferently, 
although  one  corner  of  his  mouth  twitched  again. 

"  No  !  "  Patience  sprang  to  her  feet  and  ran  down 
the  stair,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  breaking  her  neck. 
Miss  Merrien  was  waiting  for  her. 

"Why,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Oh,  let  us  get  out  into  the  air  !  Come,  and  then 
I  '11  tell  you." 

But  they  were  not  able  to  converse  until  seated  in  the 
Elevated  Train.  Then  Patience  exclaimed  with  an 
accent  of  cutting  sarcasm,  — 

"Who,  who  is  Mr.  Steele?  " 

Miss  Merrien  smiled  broadly.  "  Oh,  I  see.  Did  he 
patronise  you?  You  must  get  used  to  editors.  Re- 
member they  are  monarchs  in  a  small  way,  and  love  their 
power  —  the  more  because  their  dominion  is  confined 
within  four  walls.  But  Morgan  Steele  is  one  of  the 
kindest  men  in  the  office.  I  'd  rather  work  for  him 
than  for  any  one.  He  puts  on  an  extra  amount  of  side 
on  account  of  his  youth,  but  the  reporters  all  adore  him. 
He  won't  keep  an  incompetent  man  two  days,  and 
during  those  two  days  the  man's  life  is  a  burden ;  but 
he  is  always  doing  good  turns  to  the  boys  he  likes. 
When  you  know  him  you  '11  like  him." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    317 

"  I  think  him  an  insolent  young  cub,  and  if  I  did  n't 
hate  to  bother  Mr.  Field  I  'd  refuse  to  write  for  him. 
What  on  earth  is  a  youngster  like  that  in  such  a  re- 
sponsible position  for?" 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  this  is  the  young  man's  epoch.  Just 
cast  your  eyes  over  the  United  States  and  even  Eng- 
land, and  think  of  the  men  under  thirty  that  are  editors 
and  authors  and  special  writers  and  famous  artists  and 
leaders  of  enterprises.  They  are  burnt  out  at  forty,  but 
they  begin  to  play  a  brilliant  part  in  their  early  twenties. 
I  heard  a  man  say  the  other  day  of  another  man  who 
is  only  twenty-six  and  supposed  to  be  ambitious : 
'  Well,  he  'd  better  hump  himself.  He  's  no  chicken.' 
A  man  feels  a  failure  nowadays  if  he  has  n't  distinguished 
himself  before  thirty." 

"  They  are  certainly  distinguished  for  conceit." 

"  Oh,  when  you  get  used  to  newspaper  men  you  '11 
like  them  better  than  any  men  you  Ve  known.  What 
is  objectionable  is  counteracted  by  their  brains  and 
their  intimate  and  wonderfully  varied  knowledge  of  life. 
A  newspaper  man  who  is  at  the  same  time  a  gentleman, 
is  charming.  It  is  true  they  have  no  respect  for  any- 
body nor  anything.  They  believe  in  no  woman's  virtue 
and  no  man's  honesty  —  under  stress.  Their  kindness 
—  like  Morgan  Steele's  —  is  half  cynical,  and  they  look 
upon  life  as  a  thing  to  be  lived  out  in  twenty  years  — 
and  then  dry  rot  or  suicide.  But  no  men  know  so  well 
how  to  enjoy  life,  know  so  thoroughly  its  resources,  or 
have  all  their  senses  so  keenly  developed,  particularly 
the  sense  of  humour,  which  keeps  them  from  making 
fools  of  themselves.  No  man  can  feel  so  strongly  for  a 
day,  and  that  after  all  is  the  philosophy  of  life.  All 
this  makes  them  very  interesting,  although,  I  must  con- 


318    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

fess,  I  should  hate  to  marry  one.  It  seems  to  be  a 
point  of  honour  among  them  to  be  unfaithful  to  their 
wives ;  however,  I  imagine,  the  real  reason  is  that  no 
one  woman  has  sufficient  variety  in  her  to  satisfy  a  man 
who  sees  life  from  so  many  points  of  view  daily  that  he 
becomes  a  creature  of  seven  heads  and  seven  hearts 
and  seven  ideals.  Now,  tell  me  all  about  your  inter- 
views with  Mr.  Field  and  Morgan  Steele." 

Patience  told  the  tale,  and  Miss  Merrien  raised  her 
eyebrows  at  its  conclusion.  "  Well,  you  need  not  lie 
awake  nights  trembling  for  the  future.  You  are  in  for 
push  and  no  mistake.  If  the  Chief  has  taken  you  under 
his  wing  in  that  fashion  you  can  be  sure  that  Morgan 
Steele  will  work  you  for  all  that  is  in  you,  whether  he 
wants  to  or  not."  Suddenly  she  laughed,  and  leaning 
over  looked  quizzically  at  Patience.  "  You  vain  girl," 
she  said,  "  you  are  piqued  because  Morgan  Steele  did 
not  succumb  as  other  men  —  including  Mr.  Field  — 
have  done  to  your  beauty  and  charm.  But  I  '11  tell  you 
this,  by  way  of  consolation  :  it  is  a  point  of  etiquette  — 
or  prudence  —  among  editors  never  to  pay  the  most 
commonplace  attentions  to,  or  manifest  the  slightest 
interest  in  the  women  of  the  office.  It  would  not  only 
lead  to  endless  complications,  but  would  impair  the 
lordlings'  dignity  :  in  other  words,  they  would  be  guyed. 
So  cheer  up.  You  have  n't  gone  off  since  this  morn- 
ing. I  see  three  men  staring  at  you  in  true  Elevated 
style." 

Patience  laughed.  "  Well,  I  will  admit  that  I  have 
no  respect  whatever  for  a  man  that  is  unappreciative  of 
the  charms  of  woman.  I  'd  like  to  give  Mr.  Steele  a 
lesson,  but  I  won't.  I  would  n't  condescend.  I  '11  be 
as  business-like  as  he  is.  He  knew  why  I  was  angry  to- 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    319 

day,  I  am  afraid,  but  he  won't  see  me   angry  again. 
Why  is  Mr.  Field  so  much  nicer?  " 
"  Oh,  he  owns  the  paper." 


Ill 

PATIENCE'S  indignation  had  worn  itself  out  by  bedtime. 
When  Miss  Merrien  left  her  for  the  night  she  locked  her 
door  and  spread  her  arms  out  with  an  exultant  sense  of 
freedom.  She  seemed  to  feel  the  ugly  weight  of  the 
past  two  years  fall  from  her,  and  to  hear  it  go  clattering 
down  the  quiet  streets.  Her  sense  of  humour  and  the 
liveliness  of  her  mind  had  saved  her  from  morbidity  at 
any  time,  although  she  had  not  escaped  cynicism.  She 
now  felt  that  she  could  turn  her  back  squarely  on  the 
past,  that  she  was  not  a  woman  whose  mistakes  and 
dark  experiences  would  corrode  the  brain  and  spirit, 
ruining  present  and  future.  She  could  not  make  the 
same  mistake  again ;  and  it  was  better  to  have  made  it 
in  early  youth  when  the  etchery  of  experience  eats  the 
copper  of  the  ego  more  lightly.  The  future  seemed  to 
her  to  be  full  of  infinite  possibilities.  She  could  be  her 
own  fastidious  dreaming  idealising  self  again.  New 
friends  dotted  the  dusk  like  stars.  She  felt  ten  years 
away  from  the  man  to  whom  she  had  nodded  a  careless 
good-bye  that  morning.  A  vague  pleasurable  loneliness 
assailed  her,  the  instinct  of  plurality.  Then  she 
laughed  suddenly  and  went  to  bed. 

The  next  morning,  at  eight  o'clock,  after  a  cup  of 
black  coffee  to  stiffen  her  nerves,  she  presented  herself 
in  the  evening  room  of  the  "  Day."  Two  men  and  a 


320    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

woman  were  writing  at  little  tables.  Mr.  Steele  in  his 
shirt  sleeves  was  at  his  desk,  reading  copy.  She  sat 
down,  priding  herself  that  her  face  was  as  impassive  as 
his  own.  In  a  few  moments  he  called  her  to  his 
desk. 

"  You  have  read  in  the  newspapers,  I  suppose,  of  this 
crusade  of  Dr.  Broadhead,  the  fashionable  Presbyterian 
clergyman,  against  the  voting  of  Immigrants?"  he 
asked. 

"  Of  course." 

"Well,  he  is  doing  his  best  to  get  the  women  of 
New  York  to  help  him,  and  is  holding  his  first  meet- 
ing this  morning  in  Cooper  Union  —  eleven-thirty. 
One  of  our  best  men  will  go  to  report  the  addresses, 
but  I  want  you  to  go  and  sit  in  the  audience,  and  ob- 
serve how  many  fashionable  women  are  there,  what 
they  wear,  and  what  degree  of  interest  they  appear  to 
take  in  the  proceedings.  Above  all,  I  want  you  to 
keep  your  eyes  and  ears  open  for  any  significant  fact 
which  may  or  may  not  appear.  It  usually  does.  That 
is  all.  —  Well,  what  do  you  want?  "  This  to  the  office 
boy. 

Patience  went  slowly  downstairs,  feeling  as  if  she 
had  been  sent  out  to  discover  the  North  Pole  with  a 
chart  and  a  row-boat.  When  she  reached  Cooper 
Union,  two  hours  later,  and  found  herself  for  the  mo- 
ment an  integer  of  one  of  the  many  phases  of  current 
history,  she  forgot  the  agonising  travail  of  the  "  news 
sense,"  and  became  so  deeply  interested  that  she 
observed  the  many  familiar  faces  abstractedly,  and, 
later,  "  faked  "  their  costumes. 

She  hurried  to  her  room  before  the  meeting  was  over 
and  wrote  her  "  story."  It  concluded  thus  :  — 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    321 

"  Some  four  hundred  women  were  present,  at  half- 
past  eleven  in  the  morning ;  the  hour  indicating  that 
they  were  women  of  leisure,  which  in  its  turn  presup- 
poses the  large  measure  of  education  and  refinement, 
and  a  general  superiority  over  the  toiling  millions. 
They  were  very  enthusiastic.  When  Dr.  Broadhead  en- 
tered the  applause  was  deafening.  They  interrupted 
him  every  few  minutes.  When  he  sat  down,  and  Mr. 
Lionel  Chambers  came  forward  he,  too,  was  warmly 
welcomed,  for  his  popularity  is  well  established.  He 
smiled,  and  began  something  like  this :  — 

"  *  Ladies :  Dr.  Broadhead  has  left  me  little  to  say. 
I  being  somewhat  versed  in  politics,  however,  in  other 
words,  in  hard  fighting  with  the  enemy,  he  believes 
that  I  may  be  able  to  give  you  a  little  useful  advice.' 
(Applause  and  cries  of  'Yes  !  Yes!')  'Now,  ladies, 
there  are  several  points  upon  which  I  must  ask  your 
attention.'  (No  man  ever  had  more  serious  atten- 
tion.) '  I  will  check  them  off  in  detail.  First  of  all, 
ladies,  my  advice  to  you  is  to  —  '  (every  ear  went  for- 
ward) —  Ms  —  to  —  pray.* 

"  He  paused.  There  was  an  intense  and  disgusted 
silence,  with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  muttered  ex- 
clamations of  impatience.  There  were  just  four  hun- 
dred women  in  the  city  of  New  York  who  were  beyond 
that  sort  of  thing.  He  saw  his  mistake  at  once,  blun- 
dered on  confusedly,  recovered  himself,  and  gave  them 
much  sound,  practical  advice  which  they  received  with 
every  mark  of  gratitude." 

She  hastened  down  to  the  office,  her  eyes  shining  with 
the  proud  delight  of  authorship.  Steele  looked  busier 
than  any  one  she  had  ever  seen,  but  he  asked  sharply : 

21 


322    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"Got  anything?" 

"Yes." 

"  Let  me  see  it.     Skip  the  descriptive  part." 

She  handed  him  the  latter  part  of  her  story,  and  he 
ran  his  eye  hastily  over  it.  A  gleam  shot  from  his  eyes, 
but  he  compressed  his  lips. 

"That's  not  bad  —  but  I  don't  know  that  I  dare 
print  it.  The  religious  hypocrisy  of  this  country  beats 
that  of  England,  strange  as  it  may  appear.  However, 
I  '11  think  it  over.  Come  down  to-morrow  morning." 

The  article  was  printed,  and  the  result  was  a  shower 
of  protesting  letters  from  clergymen  and  religious 
women.  Patience  was  sent  to  interview  a  number  of 
representative  women,  of  various  spheres  of  life,  on  the 
subject,  and  found  herself  fairly  launched.  She  hardly 
had  time  to  realise  whether  she  liked  the  work  or  not, 
but  when  she  was  not  too  tired,  concluded  that  she 
did.  As  this  phase  wore  off,  she  developed  consider- 
able enthusiasm,  and  felt  her  bump  of  curiosity  enlarge. 

She  practically  forgot  the  past,  except  to  wonder 
occasionally  that  she  heard  nothing  from  the  Peeles. 
Upon  her  arrival  in  New  York,  on  the  morning  of  her 
departure  from  Peele  Manor,  she  had  mailed  a  note  to 
Beverly,  which  merely  announced  that  she  had  left  him, 
never  to  return.  He  was  the  sort  of  a  man  to  put  the 
matter  in  the  hands  of  a  detective,  but  so  far  —  and 
the  weeks  were  growing  into  a  month  —  he  had  given 
no  sign  of  any  kind.  She  cared  little  for  the  cause  of 
his  silence,  however ;  she  was  too  thankful  for  the  fact. 
Occasionally  Steele  gave  her  a  brief  word  of  praise,  and 
she  was  more  delighted  than  she  had  ever  been  at  the 
admiration  of  man. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    323 


IV 

PATIENCE  sprang  out  of  bed,  full  of  the  mere  joy  of 
living.  She  felt  as  happy  as  a  wild  creature  of  the 
woods,  and  for  no  reason  whatever.  She  longed  for 
Rosita's  voice  that  she  might  carol,  and  wondered  if  it 
were  possible  that  she  had  ever  thought  herself  the 
most  miserable  of  women.  The  small  room  would  not 
hold  her,  and  she  went  out  and  took  a  long  walk  in  the 
sharp  white  air ;  it  was  Sunday,  and  she  was  not  obliged 
to  go  to  the  office. 

When  she  returned,  the  servant  told  her  that  a  gen- 
tleman awaited  her  in  the  parlour.  She  turned  cold, 
but  went  defiantly  in.  The  visitor  was  Mr.  Field,  and 
the  revulsion  of  feeling  was  so  great,  and  her  exuber- 
ance of  spirits  so  undiminished,  that  she  ran  forward, 
threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kissed  him. 

"  I  am  so  happy  I  must  kiss  some  one,"  she  said, 
"  and  after  all  you  are  the  right  person,  for  it  is  owing 
to  you  that  I  am  happy." 

"  Well !  well !  "  he  said  laughing,  "  I  am  delighted ; 
and  also  relieved  that  you  did  not  take  it  into  your 
head  to  do  that  down  at  the  office.  I  Ve  just  dropped 
in  to  ask  after  your  health  and  to  say  good-bye.  How 
do  you  stand  it?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  well.  I  never  felt  so  well.  I  get  tired, 
but  I  sleep  it  off.  I  made  twenty-five  dollars  last  week, 
and  I  celebrated  the  occasion  by  coming  home  in  a 
cab.  Oh,  I  can  tell  you  I  feel  all  made  over,  and 
Peele  Manor  seems  prehistoric." 


324    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"You  always  did  live  at  a  galloping  rate  mentally. 
You  are  doing  first  rate  —  not  but  what  you  '11  do  better 
a  year  from  now.  There  's  pulse  in  your  stuff.  Keep 
your  enthusiasm  as  long  as  you  can.  Nothing  takes  its 
place.  Here  's  something  for  you." 

A  messenger  boy  had  entered  with  a  note. 

"Forme?" 

"  For  Mrs.  Beverly  Peele." 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  it  has  come.  This 
is  from  Mr.  Peele.  Do  let  me  read  it  —  I  can't  wait." 

She  tore  the  envelope  open  and  read  hastily :  — 

DEAR  PATIENCE, — On  the  night  of  the  day  of  your 
departure  from  Peele  Manor,  my  son  came  up  to  us  in  a 
distracted  condition.  He  had  also  contracted  the  grippe. 
The  combination  of  disorders  produced  delirium  and  serious 
illness.  For  that  reason  and  others  we  have  not  endeav- 
oured to  communicate  with  you.  In  fact,  I  only  ascer- 
tained yesterday  that  you  were  working  for  Mr.  Field, 
who  I  consider  has  further  betrayed  my  friendship  in 
associating  himself  with  you  in  your  insubordination. 

Of  course  you  are  at  liberty  to  act  as  you  choose.  The 
laws  of  this  country  are  wretchedly  inadequate  regarding 
the  authority  of  the  husband.  But  one  thing  I  insist  upon : 
that  you  call  upon  us  and  make  a  definite  statement  of 
what  you  purpose  to  do.  If  you  have  repented  and  wish 
to  return  to  us,  we  will  overlook  this  wretched  mistake.  If 
you  intend  definitely  to  leave  your  husband  and  to  follow 
the  disgraceful  life  of  a  reporter  on  a  sensational  newspaper, 
you  owe  it  to  us  to  come  here  in  person  and  define  your 
position.  The  family  with  which  you  have  allied  yourself, 
my  dear  young  woman,  is  not  one  to  be  dismissed  with 
a  note  of  three  lines. 

I  particularly  request  that  you  call  at  three  o'clock  this 
afternoon. 

Yours  truly 

GARDINER  PEELE. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    325 

Patience  handed  the  note  to  Mr.  Field,  who  read  it 
with  much  interest. 

"  Go  by  all  means,"  he  said ;  "  otherwise  they  will 
annoy  you  with  petty  persecutions,  and  Beverly  will 
haunt  the  'Day.'  Keep  up  all  your  pluck,  and  re- 
member that  this  is  a  free  country,  and  that  they  can 
compel  you  to  do  nothing  you  do  not  wish  to  do.  You 
are  mistress  of  the  situation,  and  can  call  upon  me  for 
proof  that  you  are  supporting  yourself  adequately." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  go.  I  never  want  to  look 
at  one  of  them  again.  I  'd  just  managed  to  forget 
them  all." 

"  But  you  must  go.  It  would  look  cowardly  if  you 
did  n't ;  and,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  you  cer- 
tainly do  owe  them  some  sort  of  explanation.  Poor 
Peele  !  he  must  have  actually  suffered  at  being  treated 
in  such  cavalier  fashion." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  '11  go  !  I  '11  go  !  But  I  wish  I  'd  never 
seen  them." 

"You  don't  look  at  all  pretty  with  that  face,  and 
I  shall  run.  By  the  way,  I  came  to  tell  you  that  I 
start  for  Paris  to-morrow  to  join  my  wife,  who  has 
been  on  the  other  side  for  some  months.  Otherwise 
she  would  have  called  before  this.  Steele  will  take 
care  of  you." 


WHEN  Patience  went  up  to  her  room  she  slammed  the 
door,  closed  the  window  violently,  then  sat  down  and 
beat  a  tattoo  on  the  floor  with  her  heels.  Her  spirits 
were  still  high,  but  cyclonic.  She  would  willingly  have 
smashed  things,  and  felt  no  disposition  to  sing. 


326    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Nevertheless  she  rang  the  bell  of  the  house  in 
Eleventh  Street  at  three  o'clock.  The  butler  bowed 
solemnly,  and  announced  that  the  family  awaited  her 
in  the  library.  Patience,  piqued  that  they  were  as- 
sured of  her  coming,  was  half  inclined  to  turn  back, 
then  shrugged  her  shoulders,  walked  down  the  hall, 
and  through  the  dining-room  to  the  library  in  the 
annex. 

The  afternoon  sun  irradiated  the  cheerful  room, 
but  Beverly,  with  sunken  eyes  and  pallid  face,  sat  hud- 
dled by  the  fire.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  as  Patience 
entered,  then  turned  away  with  a  scowl  and  sank  back 
in  his  chair.  His  mother  sat  opposite.  She  merely 
bent  her  head  to  Patience,  then  turned  her  solicitous 
eyes  to  her  son's  face.  Honora  came  forward  and 
kissed  her  sweetly.  Mr.  Peele  did  not  shake  hands 
with  her,  but  offered  her  a  chair  by  the  long  table. 
Patience  took  it,  and  experienced  a  desire  to  laugh 
immoderately.  They  had  the  air  of  a  Court  of  Inquiry, 
and  appeared  to  regard  her  as  a  delinquent  at  the 
bar. 

Mr.  Peele  sat  hi  his  revolving  chair,  tipped  a  little 
back.  He  had  crossed  his  legs  and  leaned  his  elbows 
on  the  arms  of  the  chair,  pressing  his  finger  tips  lightly 
together. 

"Now,"  he  said  coldly,  "we  are  ready  to  hear 
you." 

"I  have  nothing  in  particular  to  say.  I  gave  you 
fair  warning,  and  you  refused  to  listen,  or  to  let  me  go 
abroad  and  so  avoid  publicity.  I  therefore  took  the 
matter  in  my  own  hands  and  went." 

"You  ignore  your  duty  to  your  husband;   your 
marriage  vows?  " 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    327 

"  There  is  only  one  law  for  a  woman  to  acknowledge, 
and  that  is  her  self  respect." 

"The  husband  that  loves  you  is  entitled  to  no 
consideration?  " 

"  Not  when  he  exercises  none  himself.  I  refuse 
to  admit  that  any  human  being  has  the  right  to  con- 
trol me  unless  I  voluntarily  submit  myself  to  that 
control." 

"  Are  you  aware  that  you  are  uttering  the  principles 
of  anarchy?  " 

"  Well,  the  true  anarchists  of  this  world  are  not  the 
bomb  throwers.  When  a  man  and  woman  are  properly 
married  there  is  no  question  of  authority  or  disobe- 
dience ;  but  a  woman  is  a  common  harlot  who  lives 
with  a  man  that  makes  her  curse  the  whole  scheme  of 
creation." 

Honora  lifted  a  screen  and  hid  her  face.  Beverly 
muttered  inaudible  remarks.  Mrs.  Peele  lifted  her  eye- 
brows and  curled  her  mouth.  Mr.  Peele  moved  his 
head  slowly  back  and  forth. 

"  I  shall  not  attempt  to  contradict  any  of  your  re- 
markable theories,"  he  said.  "  It  is  apparent  that  you 
are  imbued  with  all  the  pernicious  thought  of  the  time. 
I  am  thankful  that  it  is  not  my  destiny  to  live  among 
the  next  generation  of  women.  Will  you  kindly  tell 
me  how  you  should  have  acted  in  this  matter  if  you  had 
had  children?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  !  I  have  thought  of  that.  No 
woman  should  have  a  child  until  she  has  been  married 
three  years.  By  that  time  she  would  know  whether  or 
not  she  had  made  a  mistake." 

"  And  what  shall  you  do  if  you  are  unable  to  support 
yourself?  " 


328    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Starve.  No  one  has  a  right  to  live  that  the  world 
has  no  use  for,  that  can  give  the  world  nothing.  Man's 
chief  end  is  not  bread  and  butter.  If  I  can  give  the 
world  anything  it  will  be  glad  to  give  me  a  living  in 
return.  If  I  am  a  failure  I  '11  walk  out  of  existence  as 
quietly  as  I  altered  my  life.  But  I  have  n't  the  slightest 
doubt  of  my  ability  to  take  care  of  myself." 

Mr.  Peele  pressed  his  lips  together.  The  old  man 
and  the  young  woman  regarded  each  other  steadily,  the 
one  with  malevolence  in  his  eye,  the  other  with  defi- 
ance in  hers.  In  that  moment  Mr.  Peele  hated  her, 
and  she  knew  it.  She  had  made  him  feel  old  and  a 
component  part  of  the  decaying  order  of  things,  while 
she  represented  the  insolent  confidence  of  youth  in  the 
future. 

"  Women  make  too  much  fuss,"  continued  Patience. 
"  If  they  don't  like  their  life  why  don't  they  alter  it 
quietly,  without  taking  it  to  the  lecture  platform  or  the 
polemical  novel?  If  they  don't  like  the  way  man 
governs  why  don't  they  educate  their  sons  differently  ? 
They  can  do  anything  with  the  plastic  mind.  I  am 
sure  it  could  be  proved  that  most  corrupt  politicians 
and  bad  husbands  had  weak  or  careless  mothers.  If 
the  men  of  a  country  are  bad  you  can  be  sure  the 
women  are  worse — " 

Beverly  sprang  to  his  feet,  overturning  his  chair. 
"  Damn  it !  "  he  cried.  "  You  can  talk  all  you  like, 
but  you  are  mine  and  I  '11  have  you." 

Patience  turned  and  fixed  her  angry  eyes  on  his  face. 
"  Oh,  no,  you  will  not.  Your  father  will  tell  you  that 
I  am  quite  free." 

Mr.  Peele  gave  a  short  dry  laugh.  "  She  has  the 
best  of  it,"  he  said.  "  You  cannot  compel  her  to  return 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    329 

to  you,  and  she  has  the  air  of  one  who  has  tasted  of 
the  independence  of  making  money  —  " 

"  Then  I  '11  dog  her  steps.  I  '11  make  life  hell  for 
her  —  " 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  sir.  Much  as  I 
disapprove  of  this  young  woman's  course,  she  has  in  me 
an  unwilling  abettor.  I  shall  not  have  my  domestic 
affairs  made  food  for  the  newspapers  and  their  hordes 
of  vulgar  readers.  Field  would  take  up  her  cause  and 
hound  me  to  my  grave.  You  will  keep  quiet,  and  in  the 
course  of  time  get  a  divorce  of  which  no  one  will  be  the 
wiser  until  you  marry  again.  If  the  gossip  does  not 
get  into  the  papers  it  will  not  rise  above  a  murmur.  If 
you  add  to  my  annoyance  I  shall  turn  you  out  of  Peele 
Manor  and  cut  you  off  without  a  cent.  You  will  not 
pretend  that  you  can  support  yourself." 

Patience  rose.  "  If  you  have  nothing  more  to  ask  I 
shall  go,"  she  said.  "  Beverly  can  bring  his  suit  as 
soon  as  he  chooses.  It  will  go  by  default." 

Beverly  flung  off  his  mother's  restraining  arm  and 
rushed  forward.  "You  shall  not  go!"  he  cried. 

"  Don't  touch  me  !  "  cried  Patience ;  but  before 
she  could  reach  the  door  Beverly  had  caught  her  in  his 
arms.  Excitement  gave  him  strength.  He  held  her 
with  hard  muscles  and  kissed  her  many  times. 

The  ugly  temper  she  had  kept  under  control  broke 
loose.  She  lifted  her  hand  and  struck  him  violently  on 
the  mouth.  Her  face  too  was  convulsed,  but  with 
another  passion.  She  felt  as  if  the  past  month  had 
been  annihilated. 

"Will  you  let  me  go?"  she  gasped.  "Oh,  how  I 
hate  you  ! "  Then  as  he  kissed  her  again,  "  I  could 
kill  you  !  I  could  kill  you  !  "  She  flung  herself  free, 


3JO    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

and    shaking    with   passion    faced     the     scandalised 
family. 

"You  had  better  keep  him  out  of  the  way,"  she  said. 
"Do  you  know  that  once  I  nearly  killed  my  own 
mother?" 


VI 

PATIENCE  slept  little  that  night.  Her  head  ached  vio- 
lently. When  she  presented  herself  at  the  office  Steele 
sent  her  to  report  a  morning  lecture.  It  was  dull,  and 
she  fell  asleep.  When  she  returned  to  the  office  Steele 
happened  to  be  alone. 

"  I  have  no  report,"  she  said.  "  I  fell  asleep.  That 
is  all  I  have  to  say." 

For  a  few  seconds  he  stared  at  her,  then  turned  on 
his  heel.  In  a  moment  he  came  back.  "The  next 
time  you  do  that,"  he  said,  "  hunt  up  the  reporter  of 
some  other  newspaper  and  get  points  from  him.  First- 
class  reporters  always  stand  in  together.  Here 's  a 
good  story  badly  written  that  has  come  up  from  Hon- 
duras. Take  it  home  and  revamp  it,  and  let  me  have  it 
to-morrow." 

"  You  are  awfully  good.  I  thought  you  would  tell 
me  to  go,  and  I  certainly  deserve  to." 

"  You  certainly  do,  but  we  won't  discuss  the  matter 
further." 

That  was  an  unhappy  week  for  Patience,  and  she  lost 
faith  in  her  star.  A  great  foreign  actress,  whom  she 
was  sent  to  interview,  haughtily  refused  to  be  seen, 
and  the  next  morning  capriciously  sent  for  a  reporter  of 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times   331 

the  "  Eye,"  the  hated  rival  of  the  "  Day."  She  was 
put  on  the  trail  of  a  fashionable  scandal  and  failed  to 
gather  any  facts.  She  was  sent  to  interview  a  strange 
old  woman,  supposed  to  have  a  'history,  who  lived  on  a 
canal  boat,  and  became  so  interested  in  the  creature 
that  she  forgot  all  about  the  "Day,"  and  did  not 
appear  at  Mr.  Steele's  desk  for  three  days.  When  she 
did  he  looked  sternly  at  her  guilty  face,  although  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  twitched. 

"  I'm  delighted  to  see  you  have  not  forsaken  us,"  he 
said  sarcastically.  "  May  I  ask  if  the  canal  boat  woman 
quite  slipped  your  memory?  " 

"N-o-o.     I  have  been  there  ever  since." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  His  ears  visibly  twitched.  "  That 
alters  the  case.  Did  you  get  the  story  out  of  her?  " 

Patience  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a  moment,  then 
dropped  her  eyes. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell,"  she  answered. 

Steele  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Come  out  here,"  he  said.  He  led  her  into  a 
corner  of  the  composing-room,  and  they  sat  down  on  a 
bench. 

"  Now  tell  me,"  he  said  peremptorily.  "What  have 
you  heard?  You  have  news  in  your  eye.  I  see  it." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  tell." 

"  Suppose  you  tell  the  truth.  You  have  the  story, 
and  you  won't  give  it  up.  Why  not?" 

"Well  —  you  see  —  she  confided  in  me  —  she  said  I 
was  the  only  woman  who  had  given  her  a  decent  word 
in  twenty  years ;  and  if  I  told  the  story  she  would  be 
in  jail  to-morrow  night.  Do  you  think  I  'd  be  so  low 
as  to  tell  it?" 

"  Sentimentality,  my  dear  young  woman,  is  fatal  to  a 


332    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

newspaper  reporter.  Suppose  the  entire  staff  should  go 
silly ;  where  would  the  '  Day '  be  ?  " 

"  It  might  possibly  be  a  good  deal  more  admirable 
than  it  is  now." 

"  We  won't  go  into  a  discussion  of  theory  v.  practice. 
I  want  that  story." 

"  You  won't  get  it." 

"  Indeed."  He  looked  at  her  with  cold  angry  eyes. 
"The  trouble  is  that  you  have  not  been  made  to  feel 
what  the  discipline  of  a  newspaper  office  is  —  " 

Patience  leaned  forward  and  smiled  up  audaciously 
into  his  face.  "  You  would  do  exactly  the  same  thing 
yourself,"  she  said ;  "  so  don't  scold  any  more.  I 
admit  that  you  frighten  me  half  to  death,  but  all  the 
same  I  know  that  you  would  never  send  a  poor  old 
woman  to  prison  —  not  to  be  made  editor-in-chief." 

He  reddened,  and  looked  anything  but  pleased  at 
the  compliment.  "  Do  you  know  that  you  have  just 
said  that  I  am  a  jay  newspaper  man?  "  he  asked. 

But  Patience  only  continued  to  smile,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment he  smiled  back  at  her,  then,  with  an  impatient 
exclamation,  left  her  and  returned  to  his  desk. 


VII 

Two  months  later  Steel e  asked  her  to  come  to  the  office 
at  six  o'clock,  an  hour  at  which  the  evening  room  was 
empty,  and  suggested  that  she  should  give  up  reporting, 
and  start  a  column  of  paragraphs. 

"  I  should  like  it  better,  of  course,"  said  Patience, 
after  he  had  fully  explained  the  requirements  of  the 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    333 

new  department.    "  I  was  going  to  tell  you  that  I  would 
not  go  to  that  Morgue  again." 

"  Oh,  you  would  n't  ?  Well,  you  stood  it  rather 
longer  than  I  thought  you  would." 

"  And  I  'm  tired  of  interviewing  insolent  conceited 
people.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  should  thank  you  for  all 
these  nice  things  you  Ve  just  said  to  me." 

He  dropped  his  business-like  manner  suddenly. 
"  How  do  you  stand  it?  "  he  asked.  Then  in  reply  to 
her  look  of  surprise  :  "  Oh,  you  know,  the  Chief,  when 
he  went  away,  told  me  to  look  out  for  you." 

Patience  immediately  became  the  charming  woman 
accustomed  to  the  homage  of  man.  Steele's  pre-emi- 
nence was  gone  from  that  moment. 

"  I  am  remarkably  well,  thank  you,  considering  how 
you  have  bullied  me  —  and  I  can  tell  you  that  I 
did  not  fancy  at  all  being  ordered  about  by  such  an 
infant." 

"  Oh  !  Thanks  !  But  when  a  man  's  too  polite  he 
does  n't  get  anything  done  for  him  —  not  in  this  busi- 
ness. And  is  it  a  crime  to  be  an  editor  before  you 
are  thirty?" 

"  Oh,  you  have  reason  to  be  proud  of  yourself." 

"You  mean  that  I  have  the  big  head.  Well,  that 
is  the  disease  of  the  age,  you  know.  It  would  never 
do  for  a  newspaper  man  to  get  a  reputation  for  eccen- 
tricity. You  '11  have  it  yourself  inside  of  six  months  if 
these  paragraphs  are  a  success." 

"  Never  !  I  scorn  to  be  so  unoriginal." 

"  Well,  we  '11  encourage  your  sentiments,  and  keep 
you  as  the  office  curio ;  but  I  did  n't  really  bully  you, 
did  I?" 

"  Oh,  I  '11  admit  that  you  were  kinder  than  I  deserved, 


334    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

once  in  a  while :  when  I  fell  asleep  at  the  lecture,  for 
instance." 

He  laughed  heartily.  "That  was  the  richest  joke. 
There  was  absolutely  nothing  to  say  to  you.  If  you  only 
stood  at  the  end  of  a  long  perspective  of  this  business 
and  could  fully  appreciate  the  humour  of  that  situation  ! 
An  experienced  reporter,  if  he  could  n't  have  lied  out 
of  it,  or  borrowed  news,  would  never  have  shown  up. 
You  looked  like  a  naughty  child  expecting  to  have  its 
ears  boxed." 

"  Oh,  yes,  Miss  Merrien  guyed  me  for  a  whole  week ; 
I  know  all  about  that  now.  And  now  that  you  Ve 
come  down  off  your  pedestal  I  '11  thank  you  for  all  your 
patience  and  good  training.  If  I  Ve  learned  to  write  I 
owe  it  to  your  blue  pencil;  and  I  don't  need  to  be 
told  by  Miss  Merrien  that  you  Ve  saved  me  from  a  great 
deal  of  hard  work." 

He  smiled  charmingly.  There  were  times  when  he 
looked  like  an  old  man  with  the  mask  of  youth ;  to-day 
he  looked  a  mere  boy.  "Oh,  any  one  would  do  as 
much  for  you,  even  if  the  Chief  had  n't  given  orders. 
You  are  an  unusual  woman,  you  know.  You  proved 
that  —  but,  of  course,  I  have  no  right  to  speak  to  you 
of  that."  He  stood  up  suddenly  and  held  out  his  hand. 
"Well,  be  good  to  yourself,"  he  said.  "If  you  feel 
yourself  breaking,  take  a  rest." 

"  I  wonder,"  she  thought,  as  she  went  downstairs, 
"  if  that  young  man  knows  he  betrayed  the  fact  that  he 
has  been  thinking  a  good  deal  about  me  ?  He  certainly 
is  an  interesting  youth,  and  I  should  like  to  know  him 
better." 

Patience  did  not  find  her  paragraphs  as  easy  as 
she  expected.  It  was  one  thing  to  work  on  a  given 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    335 

idea,  and  another  to  supply  idea  and  execution  both ; 
but  after  a  time  her  sharpened  brain  grew  more 
magnetic  and  life  fuller  of  ideas  than  of  lay  figures. 
The  men  in  the  office  frequently  gave  her  tips,  and  one 
clever  young  reporter,  who  worshipped  her  from  afar, 
fell  into  the  daily  habit  of  presenting  her  with  a  slip  of 
suggestions. 

Her  choicest  paragraphs  were  usually  edited  by 
Steele's  ruthless  hand,  and  now  and  again  she  was 
moved  to  wrath.  Upon  such  occasions  Mr.  Steele 
merely  smiled,  and  she  was  forced  to  smile  in  return  or 
retire  with  the  sulks. 


VIII 

PATIENCE  was  writing  busily  in  her  little  bedroom.  The 
March  winds  were  howling  down  the  street.  Her  door 
opened,  and  a  very  elegant  young  woman  entered. 

"  Hal !  "  cried  Patience. 

"  You  dear  bad  girl ! " 

They  kissed  a  half  dozen  times,  then  sat  down  and 
looked  at  each  other.  Hal  had  quite  the  young  mar- 
ried woman  air,  and  held  herself  with  a  mien  of  con- 
scious importance,  entirely  removed  from  conceit :  she 
was  grande  dame,  and  the  late  object  of  attentions  from 
smart  folks  abroad. 

"  Well,  how  are  you? "  asked  Patience.  " Oh,  but  I 
am  glad  to  see  you.  Tell  me  all  about  yourself.  When 
did  you  get  back?" 

"  Day  before  yesterday.  I  've  returned  with  thirty- 
two  trunks,  the  loveliest  jewels  you  ever  saw,  and  quite 


336    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

a  slave  of  a  husband.  I  must  say  I  never  thought 
Latimer  would  keep  up  such  a  prolonged  bluff,  but  he 
fills  the  role  as  if  he  'd  been  husbanding  all  his  life. 
Oh,  no.  Don't  look  at  me  like  that.  I  Ve  forgotten 
it,  and  I  Ve  no  regrets.  Mon  Dieu  !  To  think  that  I 
might  be  in  Boston  on  four  hundred  a  month  !  I  shall 
be  a  leader,  my  dear.  You  can  do  as  much  with  a 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  a  year  as  you  can  with  a 
million,  for  you  can  only  spend  just  so  much  money  any- 
how. All  that  the  big  millionaires  get  out  of  their 
wealth  is  notoriety.  Nobody  'd  remember  about  them 
if  it  was  n't  for  the  newspapers.  But  you  bad  bad  girl ! 
What  have  you  been  and  gone  and  done  ?  Why  did  n't 
you  wait  for  me?  I  would  have  rescued  you." 

"  Oh,  you  could  n't,  Hal  dear.  I  did  n't  want  to  be 
rescued  for  a  day  or  a  month.  I  Ve  run  away  for  good 
and  all." 

"  But,  Patience,  what  an  alternative  !  Do  you  mean 
to  say  you  live  in  this  cubby-hole  ?  " 

"  I  'm  mighty  happy  in  this  cubby-hole,  I  can  tell 
you ;  happier  than  I  ever  was  at  Peele  Manor." 

"  That  certainly  was  the  mistake  of  my  life.  How- 
ever, you  Ve  solved  the  problem  more  promptly  than 
most  women  do.  The  celerity  with  which  you  untied 
that  knot  when  you  set  about  it  moved  me  to  admira- 
tion. By  the  way,  do  you  know  that  Bev  is  ill?  " 

"  Is  he  ?     What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  exactly,  —  one  of  those  organic  afflic- 
tions that  men  are  always  getting.  How  uninteresting 
men  are  when  their  interior  decorations  get  out  of  gear. 
And  they  always  will  talk  about  them.  Latimer  is  ever 
groaning  with  his  liver ;  but  no  wonder.  I  Ve  had  to 
eat  so  much  rich  stuff  to  keep  him  from  feeling  lone- 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times   337 

some  that  I  Ve  actually  grown  fat.  Well,  we  don't 
know  what  is  the  matter  with  Bev,  yet.  The  doctor 
says  it 's  a  result  of  the  influenza.  He  has  some  pain, 
and  makes  an  awful  fuss,  like  all  men." 

"Where  are  you  going  to  stay,  now?" 

"  I  am  at  the  Holland,  but  will  spend  the  summer  at 
the  Manor  and  the  fall  at  Newport.  Our  house  on  the 
Avenue  —  opposite  the  park,  you  know — will  be  finished 
by  winter.  That  house  will  be  a  jewel.  I  got  the 
most  beautiful  things  abroad  for  it.  Then  you  will 
come  and  live  with  me." 

Patience  shook  her  head. 

"  It  would  n't  do,  and  you  will  see  it.  I  belong  to 
another  sphere  now ;  but  I  can  see  you  sometimes." 

"  Well,  put  up  that  stuff,  and  come  to  the  Holland 
and  dine  with  me.  You  can  finish  up  to-night.  I  have 
yards  and  yards  to  talk  to  you  about.  I  '11  never  give 
you  up,  —  remember  that." 


IX 

WHEN  the  hot  days  and  nights  of  summer  came 
Patience  did  not  find  routine  and  the  hunt  as  fasci- 
nating sport  as  when  the  electric  thrill  of  cooler  seasons 
was  in  the  air.  Her  paragraphs  acquired  some  reputa- 
tion, and  her  mind  grew  tense  in  the  effort  to  keep 
them  up  to  a  high  standard,  and  to  prepare  at  least 
one  surprise  a  day.  She  grew  thin  and  nervous,  and 
began  to  wonder  what  life  and  herself  would  be  like 
five  years  hence.  Mr.  Field  and  Steele  helped  her  as 
much  as  they  dared,  and  she  managed  to  make  about 
fifty  dollars  a  week:  her  success  gave  Mr.  Field  the 

22 


338    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

excuse  to  pay  her  special  rates.  It  never  occurred  to 
her  to  give  up,  and  she  assured  Hal  that  she  would 
have  nervous  prostration  four  times  a  year  before  she 
would  return  to  Peele  Manor. 

There  were  times  when  she  passionately  longed  for 
the  isolation  of  a  mountain  top.  Nature  had  been 
part  of  her  very  individuality  for  all  the  years  of  her 
life  until  this  last,  and  a  forested  mountain  top  alone 
was  the  antithesis  of  Park  Row.  f  She  sometimes  had 
a  whimsical  idea  that  her  grey  matter  was  becoming 
slowly  modelled  into  a  semblance  of  that  famous  pre- 
cinct. J  She  loved  it  loyally ;  but  the  isolation  of  high 
altitudes  sent  their  magnetism  to  another  side  of  her 
nature.  She  was  getting  farther  and  farther  away  from 
herself  in  the  jealous  absorption  of  her  work,  —  the 
skurrying  practical  details  of  her  life.  She  felt  that  she 
could  no  longer  forecast  what  she  should  do  under 
given  circumstances,  that  something  in  her  was  slowly 
changing.  What  the  result  would  be  she  could  not 
predict;  and  she  craved  solitude  and  the  opportunity 
to  study  herself  out. 

In  August  Mrs.  Field  took  her  to  her  house  in  the 
Berkshire  hills.  Although  she  had  no  solitude  there,  she 
returned  much  refreshed,  and  did  good  work  all  winter. 
Steele  she  never  saw  outside  of  the  office,  but  he  managed 
to  treat  her  with  a  certain  knightliness,  and  she  lay 
awake,  occasionally,  thinking  about  him.  Hard  work 
and  the  practical  side  of  life  had  disposed  of  a  good 
deal  of  her  romance,  but  she  was  still  given  to  vagaries. 
Steele's  modernity  fascinated  her.  No  other  epoch  but 
this  extraordinary  last  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century 
could  have  produced  him. 

She  was  a  great  favourite  in  the  office.     Again  a 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    339 

thaw  had  succeeded  a  second  glacier  period,  induced 
by  entire  change  of  environment,  and  she  liked'  nearly 
everybody  she  knew,  and  became  a  most  genial  and 
expansive  young  woman.  She  often  laughed  at  herself, 
and  concluded  that  she  would  never  strike  the  proper 
balance  until  she  fell  in  love  (if  she  ever  did),  when 
the  large  and  restless  currents  of  her  nature  would  unite 
and  find  their  proper  destination.  She  had  no  "  weird 
experiences."  Her  abounding  feminity  appealed  to 
the  chivalry  of  the  gentlemen  among  whom  she  was 
thrown,  and  she  was  clever  enough  not  to  flirt  with 
them,  to  treat  them  impartially  as  good  comrades. 
The  second-class  men  detested  her,  and  were  not  con- 
ciliated :  the  underbred  newspaper  man  touches  a  lower 
notch  of  vulgarity  than  any  person  of  similar  social 
degree  the  world  over. 

One  morning  she  awoke  about  four  o'clock,  —  that 
is,  her  mind  awoke ;  her  body  was  still  too  full  of  sleep 
to  move  to  the  right  or  left.  It  was  one  of  her  favourite 
sensations,  and  she  lay  for  a  time  meditating  upon  the 
various  pleasures,  great  and  small,  which  are  part  of 
man's  inheritance. 

Suddenly  she  became  conscious  that  it  was  raining. 
She  had  moved  into  a  back  room  on  the  second  floor. 
Beside  one  window  was  a  tin  roof  upon  which  the  rain 
poured  with  heavy  reiterance.  In  the  back  yard  was 
a  large  ailanthus  tree  which  lifted  itself  past  her  win- 
dows to  the  floor  above.  A  light  wind  rustled  it. 
The  rain  pattered  monotonously  upon  its  wide  leaves, 
producing  a  certain  sweet  volume  of  sound. 

It  was  long  since  she  had  listened  to  rain  in  the 
night.  It  was  associated  in  her  mind  with  the  vague 


34-O    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

sweet  dreams  of  girlhood  and  with  her  life  in  Carmel 
Valley.  She  had  loved  to  wander  through  the  pine 
woods  when  the  winter  rains  were  beating  through  the 
uplifted  arms,  swirling  and  splashing  in  the  dark  fragrant 
depths.  It  said  something  to  her  then,  she  hardly  knew 
what,  nor  when  it  roared  upon  the  roof  of  the  old  farm- 
house, or  flung  itself  through  the  windows  of  Carmel 
tower,  as  she  and  Solomon  huddled  close  to  the  wall. 

But  when  it  had  beaten  upon  the  roof  of  her  little 
room  in  Miss  Tremont's  house  it  had  sung  the  lone- 
liness of  youth  into  her  soul,  murmured  of  the  great 
joy  to  which  every  woman  looks  forward  as  her  birth- 
right. Hard  worked  and  absorbed  as  she  may  have 
been  during  the  day,  if  the  rain  awoke  her  in  the  night, 
it  was  to  dreams  of  love  and  of  nothing  else,  and  of  the 
time  when  she  should  no  longer  be  alone. 

This  morning  she  listened  to  the  rain  for  a  time,  then 
moved  suddenly  to  her  side,  her  eyes  opening  more 
widely  in  the  dark.  The  rain  said  nothing  to  her.  She 
listened  to  it  without  a  thrill,  with  no  longing,  with  no 
loneliness  of  soul,  and  no  vague  tremor  of  passion. 

Nothing  in  her  unhappy  experience  had  so  forcibly 
brought  home  to  her  the  changes  which  her  inner  self 
had  undergone  in  the  last  few  years.  Life  was  a  hard 
clear-cut  fact;  she  could  no  longer  dream.  Imagina- 
tion had  taken  itself  out  of  her  and  gone  elsewhere, 
into  some  brain  whose  dear  privilege  it  was  to  have  a 
long  future  and  a  brief  past. 

The  tears  scalded  her  eyes.  She  cursed  Beverly 
Peele.  She  wished  she  had  remained  in  Monterey. 
There,  at  least,  she  would  never  have  married  any  one, 
for  there  was  no  one  to  marry. 

"  Even  if  my  life  had  been  a  success,"  she  thought, 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    341 

"  if  Beverly  Peele  had  been  less  objectionable,  or  had 
died,  and  I  had  had  the  world  at  my  feet,  it  would  be  too 
high  a  price  to  pay.  Not  even  to  care  that  one  is  alone 
when  the  rain  is  sweeping  about  with  that  hollow  song  ! 
To  think  and  dream  of  nothing  beyond  the  moment ! 
To  have  accepted  life  with  cynical  philosophy,  and  feel 
no  desire  to  shake  the  Universe  with  a  great  passion  ! 
To  be  beyond  the  spell  of  the  rain  is  to  be  a  thousand 
years  old,  and  a  thousand  centuries  away  from  the 
cosmic  sense.  I  wish  I  were  dead." 

And  there  were  other  moods.  Sometimes  the  devil 
which  is  an  integral  part  of  all  strong  natures  —  of 
woman's  as  well  as  of  man's,  and  no  matter  what  her 
creed  —  awoke  and  clamoured.  There  were  four  or 
five  men  in  the  office  whom  she  liked  well  enough 
when  absent,  and  in  whom  the  lightning  of  her  glance 
would  have  changed  friendship  to  passion.  Why  she 
resisted  the  temptation  which  so  fiercely  assailed  her 
at  times  she  never  knew.  Conventions  did  not  exist 
for  her  impatient  mind  excepting  in  so  far  as  they 
made  life  more  comfortable ;  she  had  in  full  measure 
youth's  power  to  know  and  to  give  joy,  and  she  owed 
no  one  loyalty.  And  at  this  time  she  imaged  no  fu- 
ture :  she  had  lost  faith  in  ideals.  It  was  only  at  brief 
intervals  that  there  came  a  sudden  passionate  desire  — 
almost  a  flash  of  prophetic  insight  —  for  the  one  man 
who  must  exist  for  her  among  the  millions  of  men. 
And  this,  if  anything,  took  the  place  of  her  lost  ideals 
and  conquered  the  primal  impulses  of  her  nature.  Or 
was  it  a  mere  matter  of  destiny?  Woman  is  a  strange 
and  complex  instrument.  She  is  as  she  was  made, 
and  it  is  not  well  to  condemn  her  even  after  elaborate 
analysis. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 


ONE  morning  in  May,  Hal  came  in  before  Patience  was 
out  of  bed.  She  sat  down  on  a  chair  and  tapped  the 
floor  with  her  foot. 

"  I  come  charged  with  a  message,  a  special  mission, 
as  it  were,"  she  said.  "  I  hardly  know  where  to  begin." 

"Well?" 

"Don't  look  at  me  like  that,  or  I  '11  never  have  the 
courage  to  go  on.  Bev  is  desperately  ill,  —  not  in  bed, 
but  he  has  the  most  frightful  pains  :  his  disease,  which 
has  been  threatening  for  a  year,  has  developed.  It 
may  or  may  not  be  fatal.  The  doctor  says  it  certainly 
will  be  unless  he  has  peace  of  mind,  and  he  is  fretting 
after  you  like  a«big  baby.  The  grippe  seems  to  have 
broken  the  back  of  his  temper,  and  he  is  simply  a 
great  calf  bleating  for  its  parent.  It  would  be  ridicu- 
lous if  it  were  not  serious.  You  'd  better  come  back 
to  us,  Patience." 

"  I  won't." 

"  I  knew  you  would  say  exactly  that ;  but  when  you 
think  it  over  you  will  come.  Remember  that  the  doc- 
tor practically  says  that  you  can  either  save  or  prolong 
his  life.  Mamma  is  simply  distracted.  You  know  she 
adores  Bev,  and  she  broke  down  completely  last  night 
and  told  me  to  come  and  beg  you  to  return.  You 
know  what  that  means  :  you  '11  have  nothing  to  fear 
from  her." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  go  back  !  I  can't !  I  think  I  should 
die  if  I  went  back." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    343 

"  We  don't  die  so  easily,  my  dear.  Now,  I  '11  go 
and  let  you  think  it  over,"  and  the  diplomate  kissed 
Patience  and  retired. 

Patience  endeavoured  to  put  the  matter  out  of  her 
mind,  but  it  harassed  her  through  her  day's  duties, 
and  her  work  was  bad.  Steele  told  her  as  much  the 
next  afternoon  when  she  came  into  the  office  late,  in- 
tending to  write  there  instead  of  at  home.  Her  room 
was  haunted  by  Beverly's  pallid  face  and  sunken  eyes. 

"  Oh,  well,"  she  said,  flinging  herself  down  before  a 
table,  "  perhaps  it 's  the  last,  so  it  does  n't  matter." 

"  Why  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  You  do  look  pale. 
Are  you  ill?  " 

Patience  hesitated  a  moment,  then  told  him  of  the 
complication.  He  listened,  without  comment,  looking 
down  upon  the  skurrying  throngs. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  go,"  she  said  in  conclusion. 
"  Anyway  I  feel  that  I  shall  go,  whether  I  want  to  or 
not." 

He  came  over  to  the  table  and  regarded  her  with  his 
preternatural  seriousness. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you  will  go.     It  will  be  like  you." 

"  Oh,  I  am  no  angel.  It 's  not  that  —  please  !  It 's 
—  don't  you  know  there  are  some  good  acts  you  can't 
help?  Not  only  do  traditions  and  conventions  drive 
you  into  them,  but  your  own  selfishness  —  I  have  n't 
the  courage  to  be  lashed  by  my  conscience.  If  I  could 
give  that  morphine,  do  you  think  I  'd  go?" 

He  smiled.  "  Do  you  analyse  everything  like  that  ? 
However,  I  choose  to  keep  to  my  illusions.  I  think 
that  you  have  magnificent  theories,  but  act  very  much 
like  other  people.  Can  I  go  up  and  see  you  some- 
times? I  may  have  a  chance  to  know  you,  now." 


344    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

She  put  up  her  hand  and  took  his  impulsively.  "  Yes, 
come,"  she  said.  "That  is  the  only  thing  that  will 
make  life  supportable." 


XI 


SHE   went   home   and   wrote   the   following   letter    to 
Beverly  Peele :  — 

"  I  will  return  to  Peele  Manor  and  remain  while  you  are 
seriously  ill,  under  the  following  conditions:  (i)  That  you 
pay  me  what  you  would  be  obliged  to  pay  a  trained  nurse ; 
(2)  That  you  will  treat  me  on  that  basis  absolutely.  My 
feeling  toward  you  has  undergone  no  change.  I  am  not 
your  wife.  But  as  your  physician  holds  me  responsible  for 
your  life,  I  will  be  your  nurse  on  the  terms  stated  above." 

The  next  day  she  received  this  telegram  :  — 

Come.    Terms  agreed  to. 

BEVERLY  PEELE. 

She  was  received  by  the  various  members  of  the 
household  with  infinite  tact.  Mrs.  Peele 's  cold  blue 
eyes  sheltered  an  angry  spark,  but  she  behaved  to  her 
errant  daughter-in-law  exactly  as  if  matrimonial  vaca- 
tions were  orthodox  and  inevitable.  Honora  kissed 
her  sweetly,  and  asked  her  if  the  roses  were  not  beauti- 
ful. When  Mr.  Peele  came  home  he  said,  "  Ah,  good- 
evening."  Beverly,  who  had  evidently  been  coached, 
did  not  offer  to  kiss  her,  but  immediately  explained 
every  detail  of  his  disease.  Hal  and  her  husband  were 
in  the  North  Carolina  mountains. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    345 

Beverly  was  not  a  good  actor,  and  his  eyes  followed 
his  wife  with  kaleidoscopic  expression.  She  frequently 
encountered  hungry  admiration  and  angry  resentment ; 
and  if  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  abide  by  her  de- 
cree he  as  clearly  evidenced  that  he  considered  her  his 
salaried  property :  he  demanded  her  constant  atten- 
dance. He  looked  so  wan  and  hopeless  that  Patience 
was  moved  to  pity,  and  even  to  tenderness,  and  de- 
voted herself  to  his  care. 

For  the  first  two  weeks  she  felt  hourly  as  if  she  must 
pack  her  trunk  and  flit  back  to  the  "Day."  She  longed 
for  a  very  glimpse  of  the  grimy  men  in  the  composing- 
room,  and  felt  that  the  sight  of  Morgan  Steele  in  his 
shirt  sleeves  would  give  more  spiritual  satisfaction  than 
the  green  and  grey  of  the  Palisades. 

The  life  at  Peele  Manor  seemed  doubly  flat  after  her 
emancipation.  At  the  breakfast  table,  Mrs.  Peele  and 
Honora  discussed  their  small  interests.  At  luncheon, 
Beverly  —  who  arose  late  —  gave  the  details  of  his 
night.  At  dinner  there  was  little  conversation  of  any 
sort.  The  mornings,  and  the  afternoons  from  four 
to  six  —  when  Beverly  drove  with  his  mother  and 
Honora —  were  Patience's  own.  Although  discon- 
tented, she  was  by  no  means  unhappy :  she  was  out 
of  bondage  forever.  If  Beverly  grew  better  she  could 
return  to  the  "Day"  after  a  reasonable  time  had 
elapsed. 

She  spent  most  of  her  leisure  rambling  over  the  hills 
in  idle  reverie  or  meditating  upon  her  checkered  life. 
She  gave  a  good  deal  of  thought  to  the  many  phases  of 
life  which  had  flashed  before  her  startled  eyes  in  the 
last  year,  but  was  too  young  not  to  be  more  interested 
in  herself  than  in  problems,  however  momentous.  Still, 


346    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

she  did  not  feel  much  more  intimate  with  herself  than 
she  had  felt  in  Park  Row. 

She  frequently  wondered  with  some  pique  and  much 
disapproval  that  she  heard  nothing  from  Morgan  Steele. 
The  few  glimpses  she  had  caught  of  the  nature  behind 
the  mask  tempted  her  to  idealise  him,  and  she  finally 
succumbed.  One  night  she  awoke  to  the  fact  that  she 
had  been  walking  the  stars  with  him,  discussing  the 
mysteries  of  the  Universe.  She  pictured  the  smile  with 
which  he  would  regard  the  workings  of  her  imagination, 
were  they  revealed  to  him,  and  recalled  his  business- 
like demeanour,  his  shirt  sleeves,  his  Park  Row  vocab- 
ulary, and  his  impatient  scorn  of  "  damned  slush." 

It  happened  to  be  midnight  when  these  later  thoughts 
arrived,  and  she  laughed  aloud. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  demanded  a  queru- 
lous voice  from  the  next  room. 

"Nothing." 

"Nothing?  Do  you  suppose  I'm  an  idiot?  Tell 
me  what  you  were  laughing  at." 

"  Go  to  sleep,  go  to  sleep." 

"  I  can't  go  to  sleep.  You  lie  there  and  laugh  while 
I  lie  here  and  suffer." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  say  you  were  suffering  ?  Do  you 
want  the  morphine  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't." 

An  hour  later  Patience  was  roused  from  her  first 
heavy  sleep. 

"  Patience  !  Patience  !  Oh,  my  God  !  My  God  ! 
My  God  ! " 

Patience  stumbled  out  of  bed  and  into  her  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers,  shaking  her  head  vigorously  to  dis- 
pel the  vapours  in  her  brain. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    347 

"  Yes,  yes  !  "  she  said.  "  I  'm  coming.  Do  please 
don't  make  such  a  fuss.  You  '11  wake  up  everybody  —  " 

"  Not  make  a  fuss  !  Oh,  I  wish  you  had  it  for  a 
minute  —  " 

Patience  ran  into  the  lavatory  and  turned  up  the  gas. 
The  night  was  very  warm,  and  the  door  leading  into 
Honora's  room  stood  wide.  The  light  fell  full  on  her 
face.  Patience  saw  that  her  eyes  were  open. 

"  I  hope  Beverly  did  n't  wake  you  up,"  she  said. 
"He  does  make  such  a  noise." 

"  I  was  awake.  I  never  sleep  well  in  warm  weather. 
I  don't  envy  you,  though." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  if  only  I  don't  make  a  terrible 
mistake  some  night  and  give  him  an  overdose.  He 
takes  particular  pains  to  wait  until  I  am  in  my  first 
sleep  and  then  I  hardly  know  what  I  am  doing.  There  ! 
this  is  the  third  time  I  have  dropped  the  wretched  stuff. 
What  is  the  good  of  drop  bottles,  anyway?  " 

"  Why  don't  you  use  the  hypodermic?" 

"  I  can't.  It  would  make  me  ill  to  puncture  people. 
And  this  does  him  as  much  good."  She  set  the  bottle 
down  impatiently,  drew  a  basin  full  of  cold  water, 
dashed  it  over  her  face,  then  dropped  the  dose  and 
took  it  to  Beverly. 

"  Stay  with  me,"  he  commanded.  "  You  know  it 
does  n't  take  effect  at  once,  and  I  feel  better  if  I  hold 
your  hand."  She  sat  down  beside  him  and  nodded 
sleepily  until  the  morphine  did  its  work. 


348    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 


XII 

THE  next  afternoon,  a  few  moments  after  Beverly  had 
gone  for  his  drive,  Morgan  Steele's  card  was  brought  up 
to  Patience.  She  had  imagined  that  this  first  call 
would  induce  a  mild  thrill  of  nerve,  but  she  merely 
remarked  to  the  butler :  "  Tell  him  I  will  be  down  in 
a  moment,"  walked  to  the  long  mirror  in  the  corner, 
and  shook  out  her  violet  and  white  organdie  skirts.  Her 
long  hair  was  braided  and  tied  with  a  lavender  ribbon. 

"  I  look  very  well,"  she  thought,  and  went  down- 
stairs. 

Steele  awaited  her  in  the  drawing-room,  and,  as  she 
entered,  was  standing  with  his  head  thrown  back,  re- 
garding the  medallion  of  Whyte  Peele.  She  noted 
anew  how  welt  he  dressed  and  carried  his  clothes. 
He  looked  quite  at  home  in  the  drawing-room  of 
Peele  Manor.  Her  first  remark  followed  in  natural 
sequence,  — 

"  How  odd  not  to  see  you  in  your  shirt  sleeves." 

He  turned  with  a  start  and  a  sudden  warmth  in  his 
fece. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  hope  you  '11  never  see  me  that  way 
again.  How  charming  you  look  in  that  frock  and  with 
your  hair  in  that  braid  !  /  always  imagine  you  in  prim 
tailor  things,  with  your  hair  tucked  out  of  sight  under  a 
stiff  turban.  This  is  lovely.  You  look  like  a  little  girl. 
Those  awful  dress  reformers  should  see  you." 

"  It 's  a  comfort  to  think  that  the  She-males  cannot 
exterminate  the  artistic  sense.  Let  us  go  into  the 
library." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    349 

"Is  there  a  large  comfortable  chair  there?  These 
are  impressive  but  unpleasant.  Perhaps  you  would  not 
suspect  it,  but  I  love  a  comfortable  chair  and  a  cigar 
better  than  anything  in  life." 

"  One  thing  I  do  suspect  —  that  we  shall  have  to 
become  acquainted  all  over  again.  You  are  not  exactly 
like  a  fallen  angel  outside  of  the  office,  but  you  cer- 
tainly have  not  patronised  me  for  five  minutes." 

"  Oh,  you  can  take  your  revenge  now  and  patronise 
me.  Hang  the  shop  !  I  don't  want  to  think  about  it" 

In  the  library  he  critically  inspected  every  chair, 
selected  one  that  pleased  him,  and  drawing  it  to  the 
open  window  sank  into  it  with  a  deep  sigh  of  content. 
Patience  gave  him  permission  to  smoke,  and  a  moment 
later  he  looked  so  happy  that  she  laughed  aloud. 

"You  may  laugh,"  he  said  plaintively,  "but  you 
have  less  imagination  than  I  thought  if  you  don't  un- 
derstand what  this  is  to  a  man  after  Park  Row.  After 
an  hour  of  that  water  and  your  muslin  frock,  I  shall 
go  back  as  refreshed  as  if  my  brain  had  taken  a  cold 
bath." 

"  I  'd  fly  back  to  the  office  this  minute  if  I  could. 
I  've  felt  like  a  bottle  of  over-charged  champagne  for 
two  weeks." 

"  You  have  the  enthusiasm  of  youth.  When  you  are 
my  age  —  sixty-five  —  you  will  be  thankful  for  the  dolce 
far  niente  of  a  colonial  manor.  This  sort  of  life  suits 
you  —  you  are  a  born  chatelaine.  You  have  lost  your 
tired  expression,  and  are  actually  stouter.  Besides,  I 
want  to  come  up  here  to  see  you." 

"Will  you  come  often?" 

"As  often  as  you  will  let  me.  I  am  free  every 
afternoon,  you  know,  and  if  I  followed  my  tactless  in- 


350    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

clination  I  'd  come  seven  times  a  week.  However, 
don't  look  alarmed  ;  I  'm  only  coming  once  a  week  —  " 
He  sat  up  suddenly,  his  eyes  sparkling.  "  By  Jove  !  " 
he  exclaimed.  "  What  a  beauty  !  " 

Patience  followed  his  eyes,  which  were  directed 
ardently  upon  a  sail-boat  skimming  up  the  river. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  sailing?  "  she  asked. 

"  Am  I  ?  I  could  live  in  a  boat.  I  'd  rather  be  in 
a  boat  than —  than  even  talking  to  you." 

"  Well,  you  shall  be  inside  of  a  boat  in  five  minutes," 
she  said  good-naturedly.  "  Wait  until  I  get  my  hat  and 
gloves  ! " 

"  Being  only  the  nurse,"  she  said,  as  they  walked 
down  the  wooded  slope  to  the  boathouse,  "  I  don't 
know  that  I  have  any  right  to  take  liberties,  but  I  will, 
all  the  same.  I  feel  that  it  is  an  act  of  charity." 

"It  certainly  is,  and  you  really  are  an  angel. — 
She  's  a  good  boat,"  he  said  approvingly,  a  few  mo- 
ments later,  as  he  unreefed  the  sail. 

Patience  arranged  the  cushions  and  made  herself 
comfortable,  and  they  shot  up  the  river  in  a  stiff  breeze. 
She  watched  Steele  curiously.  He  looked  as  happy  as 
a  schoolboy.  His  hat  was  on  the  back  of  his  head,  his 
eyes  shone.  Once  as  he  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed,  he  bore  an  extraordinary  resemblance  to  the 
Laughing  Faun. 

"  I  Ve  lived  in  a  boat  for  a  whole  summer,"  he  said, 
"  and  never  seen  a  woman  nor  wanted  to,  nor  a  man 
neither,  for  that  matter.  There  are  three  months  in 
the  year  when  I  want  nothing  better  in  life  than  this." 
His  large  cool  eyes  moved  slowly  to  hers.  "  Still,"  he 
added,  "  I  do  believe  it 's  an  improvement  to  have  you 
here.  What  fun  if  we  had  a  little  yacht  and  could  sail 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    351 

like  this  all  summer !  I  think  we  'd  hit  it  off,  don't 
you?  We  should  n't  either  of  us  talk  too  much." 

Patience  laughed.  It  was  impossible  to  coquet  with 
Steele.  He  took  no  notice  of  it.  "  I  should  be  afraid 
you  'd  tip  me  over  if  you  got  tired  of  me." 

"  I  should  n't  get  tired  of  you,"  he  said  seriously. 
"  I  never  met  a  woman  I  liked  half  as  much.  You  're 
lovely  to  look  at,  and  your  mind  is  so  interesting  to 
study.  Guess  I  'd  better  come  about." 

They  sailed  for  two  hours.  The  wind  fell,  and  they 
talked  in  a  desultory  fashion.  They  discovered  that 
they  had  the  same  literary  gods,  and  occasionally 
Steele  waxed  enthusiastic.  He  had  read  more  than 
most  men  of  forty;  nor  was  there  anything  youthful 
about  the  fixity  of  his  opinions. 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Patience,  suddenly,  "why  did 
we  never  meet  before  ?  I  like  you  better  than  any  one 
I  ever  knew.  I  've  been  hunting  all  my  life  for  a 
mental  companion." 

"  So  have  I,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her  in  his  half  cyni- 
cal way,  "  and  now  I've  found  you  I  don't  propose  to 
let  you  go  ;  not  even  next  winter." 

He  confided  to  her  that  he  had  written  a  good  deal, 
although  he  had  published  nothing.  Patience  won- 
dered where  he  had  found  time  to  accomplish  so 
much. 

"  I  'm  going  to  bring  up  some  of  my  stuff  and  read 
it  to  you,"  he  said.  "  You  can  take  that  as  a  compli- 
ment if  you  like,  for  I  've  only  shown  it  to  one  other 
person  —  a  man." 

"  Now,  J  know  why  you  like  me  !  You  are  going  to 
study  me." 

"  Well,  it 's  partly  that,"  he  replied  coolly.     "  You  are 


352    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

a  new  type  —  to  me  at  any  rate,  and  I  shall  probably 
know  a  good  deal  more  after  I  have  known  you  a  year 
or  so  than  I  do  now.  Who  is  that?  What  an  amiable  - 
looking  person  !  " 

Patience  followed  his  glance.  Beverly  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  slope,  with  distorted  face. 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  said,  "that  is  Mr.  Peele.  I  am 
afraid  he  is  going  to  be  disagreeable.  Of  course  I  am 
not  obliged  to  stay —  but  in  a  way  I  am." 

Steele  ran  the  boat  into  the  dock,  handed  her  out, 
and  reefed  the  sail  before  he  spoke.  Then  he  turned 
and  looked  at  her  squarely. 

"Would  you  rather  I  did  not  come?  "  he  asked. 

"  No  !  No  !  I  want  you  to  come.  I  '11  think  it 
over  and  write  you  —  or  —  I  wonder  if  you  are  horrid 
like  most  men  and  would  misunderstand  me  if  I  asked 
you  always  to  come  on  a  certain  day  and  meet  me  in 
that  wood  up  there,  instead  of  going  to  the  house?  " 

"  Look  here,"  he  said  in  his  old  business-like  tone, 
"just  let  me  set  your  mind  at  rest.  I  haven't  the 
slightest  intention  of  making  love  to  you.  In  the  first 
place  I  am  just  now  tired  and  sick  of  that  sort  of  thing 
—  a  state  a  man  does  get  into  occasionally,  although 
a  woman  will  never  believe  it.  In  the  second  place  I 
like  to  think  of  you  as  sui  generis ;  a  woman  on  a 
pedestal.  It  is  very  refreshing.  A  week  from  to-day 
I  '11  be  in  that  wood,  and  I  '11  stay  there  from  four  to 
six  whether  you  come  or  not.  There  comes  my 
train." 

"  You  must  flag  it.  Hurry.  I  '11  expect  you  Thurs- 
day." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    353 


XIII 

"  WHO  is  that  man?  "  thundered  Beverly,  as  she  crossed 
the  track  behind  the  train. 

Patience  raised  her  eyebrows.  "  What  have  you  to 
do  with  my  visitors?  " 

"You  sha'n't  receive  men,  and  you  sha'n't  sail  in 
my  boat." 

"Of  course  the  boat  is  yours.  I  shall  not  use  it 
again." 

"  You  are  my  nurse." 

"Your  nurse  is  always  ready  to  be  dismissed,"  and 
she  walked  up  the  slope,  taking  no  further  notice  of 
him. 

Hal  returned  the  following  week;  and,  as  Beverly 
improved  steadily,  the  house  was  filled  with  company 
once  more.  Whenever  Patience  hinted  that  she  was 
no  longer  required,  Beverly  immediately  went  to  bed 
and  rent  the  air ;  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  his  attacks 
were  growing  less  and  less  frequent. 

Patience,  in  the  circumstances,  was  not  impatient  to 
return  to  work  until  the  hot  weather  was  over.  Her 
position  was  very  pleasant,  Hal  was  ever  her  loyal 
friend,  and  she  saw  Morgan  Steele  once  a  week. 

The  wood  was  a  wild  place  on  a  slope  of  the  bluff 
some  distance  above  the  house.  Its  underbrush  made 
it  unpopular  with  the  guests  of  Peele  Manor.  Steele 
left  the  train  at  the  regular  station  a  mile  up  the  road 
and  walked  back  without  encounter.  In  the  heart  of 
the  dark  cool  little  wood  Patience  swung  two  ham- 
mocks and  filled  them  with  pillows.  Steele  lay  full 
23 


354    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

length  in  his  and  looked  comfortable  and  happy,  a  cigar 
ever  between  his  lips.  Patience,  in  hers,  sat  in  as 
dignified  an  attitude  as  she  could  assume. 

"Does  it  make  you  feel  romantic?"  he  said  one 
day,  looking  at  her  quizzically. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  asked,  flushing  a  little. 

"  Oh,  I  think  you  have  a  queer  romantic  sentimental 
streak  through  your  modernity  —  or  had.  I  've  been 
wondering  if  there  was  any  of  it  left." 

"  I  never  told  you." 

"  No,  but  you  suggest  it.  Tell  me  :  did  n't  you  once 
have  ideals  and  that  sort  of  thing?  " 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  even  guess  it,  for  I  have 
none  now." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  have.  You  won't  when  you  're  thirty, 
but  you  have  all  sorts  of  kiddish  notions  stored  away  yet 
in  that  brain  of  yours."  He  had  seen  Peele  a  few  days 
before  in  the  train,  and  knew  the  history  of  their  court- 
ship quite  as  well  as  if  she  had  related  it  to  him,  but 
he  was  curious  to  know  what  she  had  been  before.  He 
drew  her  on  until  she  told  him  the  story  of  the  tower 
and  the  owl. 

That  little  picture  pleased  his  artistic  sense,  but  when 
she  described  her  girlish  ideals  and  dreams  he  threw 
back  his  head  and  laughed  loud  and  long. 

"What  would  I  have  done  with  you  if  I  had  met 
you  then?  "  he  said,  looking  with  intense  amusement  at 
her  half  angry  face.  "  I  should  have  run,  I  expect. 
You  are  a  thousand  times  more  interesting  now." 

"Not  to  myself." 

"  Of  course  not,  because  you  are  less  of  an  egoist, 
and  draw  a  larger  measure  of  your  individuality  from 
your  environment.  But  you  are  real  now,  where  before 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    355 

you  were  unreal  —  you  were  a  sort  of  waxwork  with 
numerous  dents.  The  two  extremes  in  this  world  are 
nature  and  civilisation.  Children  belong  by  right  to 
nature,  and  she  holds  on  to  them  as  long  as  possible. 
When  civilisation  gets  hold  of  them  she  proceeds  to 
pick  out  with  a  pair  of  tweezers  all  but  the  primal 
passions;  and  the  result  is  the  only  human  variety 
capable  of  enjoying  life." 

"Don't  you  believe  in  ideals?"  asked  Patience, 
rather  wistfully. 

"  Of  course  not,"  he  said  contemptuously.  "  Life  is 
what  it  is,  and  you  can't  alter  it.  And  as  we  are  only 
just  so  big  and  have  only  just  so  many  years  in  which 
to  get  over  a  limited  surface  of  this  mighty  complica- 
tion called  Life,  all  we  can  do  is  to  keep  our  eyes  open, 
and  pick  out  here  and  there  what  appeals  to  our  taste 
most  strongly,  swallowing  the  disagreeable  majority  as 
philosophically  as  possible.  When  you  know  the  world 
—  and  yourself —  you  can't  have  ideals,  and  the  sooner 
you  quit  wasting  time  thinking  about  them  the  sooner 
you  begin  to  enjoy  life.  And  remember  that  we  live 
but  from  day  to  day  —  we  may  be  a  cold  cadaver  to- 
morrow. Life  is  a  game  of  chance.  To  set  up  ideals 
is  as  purposeless  as  to  waste  this  life  preparing  for  an 
impossible  next.  Omar  expressed  it  better  than  I  can 
when  he  said  :  — 

" '  To-morrow  ?    Why,  to-morrow  I  myself  may  be 
With  yesterday's  seven  thousand  years.' " 

"You  have  certain  ideals  though,"  said  Patience. 
"You  are  intellectually  ambitious;  and  you  say  that 
you  never  run  after  a  merely  pretty  face,  and  never 
wasted  time  on  any  sort  of  woman  unless  she  had 


356    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

brains;  and  the  men  at  the  office  say  that  you  are 
scrupulously  square  in  money  matters.  So  that  I  can't 
see  that  you  are  altogether  without  ideals." 

"  Those  are  mere  matters  of  taste  and  worldly  sense. 
I  aim  for  nothing  that  is  impossible.  When  I  think  I 
want  a  thing  I  set  about  to  accomplish  it.  If  I  find 
that  it  is  impossible  I  quit  without  further  loss  of  time. 
You  don't  suppose  I  have  an  ideal  woman,  do  you? 
How  can  any  man  that  knows  women  ?  —  although  he 
may  often  succumb  to  a  happy  combination.  When  I 
was  exactly  twelve  my  Sunday  School  teacher  forestalled 
any  inclination  I  might  have  developed  to  idealise 
woman.  I  met  her  once  after  I  was  grown,  by  the 
way,  and  it  did  me  good  to  tell  her  what  I  thought  of 
her.  That  is  where  you  women  have  the  advantage 
of  us.  It  is  so  long  before  you  know  man  at  all  that 
after  you  do  it  is  hard  work  making  him  over  as  he 
is.  The  woman  never  lived  that  understood  man  by 
intuition.  That  is  the  reason  a  woman  so  seldom  has 
any  fascination  but  that  of  mere  youth  until  she 's 
pretty  well  on  to  thirty.  You,  of  course,  have  had 
an  exceptional  experience,  but  you  are  a  good  deal  of 
a  kid  yet." 


XIV 

MORGAN  STEELE  was  a  type  of  the  precocious  young 
United  States  newspaper  man  which  only  this  end  of  the 
century  has  evolved :  Preternaturally  wise  in  the  way  of 
the  world  and  the  nature  of  woman ;  with  young  blood 
and  cold  judgment ;  wary,  deliberate,  calculating ;  full 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    357 

of  kind  impulses ;  generous  with  his  money,  yet  careful 
of  it ;  ready  to  make  cold-blooded  use  of  a  man  to-day 
and  offer  him  a  free  lodging  to-morrow ;  possessed  of 
more  self-control  than  the  Club  man  of  forty ;  without 
sentimentality,  yet  with  a  certain  limited  power  of 
loving;  having  a  thorough  appreciation  of  the  finer 
as  of  the  coarser  shades  of  woman ;  incapable  of  a 
blind  supreme  rush  of  feeling,  through  the  habit  of 
eternal  analysis;  placidly  and  philosophically  content 
with  the  present,  and  fully  expecting  to  be  laid  away  in 
the  past  at  forty;  blase,  yet  full  of  boyish  delight  in 
outdoor  sport ;  having  faith  in  no  woman,  yet  treating 
the  lowest  with  a  cynical  kindness  and  consideration 
which  was  part  of  his  philosophy. 

One  night  he  faced  the  question  of  his  relationship 
to  Patience  with  his  usual  deliberation. 

He  lay  on  a  divan  in  his  bachelor  quarters  :  a  long 
room  with  bedroom  and  bath  attached.  The  walls 
of  the  living-room  were  covered  with  red  paper,  the 
doors  and  windows  hung  with  Smyrna  cloth.  A  rug 
half  covered  the  stained  floor.  Between  the  windows 
was  a  large  desk  covered  with  papers.  A  long  table 
was  strewn  thick  with  magazines.  Small  bookcases 
were  filled  with  the  works  of  Omar,  Whitman,  Emerson, 
Hugo,  Heine,  Dumas,  Maupassant,  Bourget,  Pater,  Dob- 
son,  Herrick,  Ibsen,  Zola,  Landor,  Rabelais,  Stevenson, 
Kipling.  On  the  mantel  there  was  a  number  of  photo- 
graphs and  a  notable  absence  of  legs.  The  walls  were 
covered  with  artists'  sketches. 

"The  summer  will  pass  harmlessly  enough,"  he 
thought.  "  I  only  see  her  once  a  week,  and  her  hus- 
band is  likely  to  be  hidden  in  the  brush ;  but  when  she 
returns  to  town  in  the  winter  I  shall  find  myself  calling 


358    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

on  her  every  night.  I  'm  not  stuck  on  matrimony,  but 
I  certainly  should  like  her  for  a  companion  in  a  little 
house  or  double  apartment  where  there  would  be 
plenty  of  elbow  room  and  some  chance  of  keeping  up 
the  illusions.  I  think  it  would  be  some  years  before  I 
should  tire  of  her,  and  I  think  I  could  love  her  a  good 
deal.  Why  in  thunder  does  n't  the  man  die  ?  She  's 
too  good  for  anything  else.  It  would  be  a  terrible  pity 
—  the  details  smirch  so.  A  novelist  would  remark  at 
this  point,  '  And  yet  he  never  thought  of  sparing  her. ' 
No,  my  dear  fictionist,  we  don't,  nor  if  she  loved  me 
would  she  thank  me  for  sparing  her.  And  yet  it 
would  be  a  pity.  She  is  like  some  delicate  wild-flower 
that  has  been  transplanted.  I  should  like  to  offer  her 
the  best  one  can,  instead  of  practically  remarking: 
'My  dear,  this  brain  racket  is  worked  out  for  the 
present.  We  '11  return  to  it  later,  or  not  at  all.' 

"  It  is  often  a  clever  thing  for  those  that  love  and 
cannot  marry  to  part  when  the  shock  comes :  they 
coddle  the  misery  and  have  a  glorious  time  suffering. 
But  that  would  not  do  for  us.  We  live  in  the  thick 
and  rush  of  life,  and  have  no  time  to  sit  down  with 
memories,  hardly  time  enough  to  realise  an  ache.  We 
must  have  our  day  in  fact  or  not  at  all ;  and  afterward, 
thank  God,  there  is  again  no  time  for  memories.  Well, 
this  is  only  the  eighth  of  July.  By  winter  that  intoler- 
able nuisance  may  be  in  the  family  vault." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    359 


XV 

PEOPLE  remarked  that  summer  that  Patience  looked 
unusually  well.  At  times  her  eyes  had  a  certain  liquid 
softness,  at  others  they  sparkled  wickedly.  Her  colour 
was  beautiful  and  her  manner  and  conversation  full  of 
animation. 

It  was  on  a  hot  August  afternoon  that  Patience  and 
Steele,  in  the  green  shades  of  their  wood,  suddenly  met 
each  other's  eyes  and  burst  out  laughing. 

"  We  are  in  love,"  said  Patience. 

"  Well — yes  —  I  suppose  we  are." 

"I  feel  very  light-minded  over  this  unexpected 
denouement.  I  had  imagined  all  sorts  of  dramatic 
climaxes;  but  the  unexpected  always  will  happen  in 
this  life  —  more 's  the  pity." 

"  Did  you  expect  we  should  not  fall  in  love?" 

"I  did  not  think  about  it  at  all  for  a  time  —  just 
drifted.  But  as  the  situation  is  so  serious  it  is  as  well 
to  take  it  humourously.  What  are  we  going  to  do  about 
it?" 

He  had  removed  his  cigar,  and  was  regarding  her  with 
his  contemplative  stare.  "  I  have  thanked  your  compli- 
cated ancestors  more  than  once  for  your  large  variety 
of  moods.  I  am  glad  and  sorry  that  you  have  spoken  : 
sorry,  because  this  was  very  pleasant;  glad  that  the 
discussion  of  ways  and  means  should  take  place  here 
instead  of  in  town.  I  shall  be  brutally  frank.  How 
long  is  your  husband  likely  to  live?  " 

"  He  may  live  for  twenty  years.  I  heard  the  doctors 
—  they  have  a  consultation  every  once  in  a  while  —  tell 


360    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Mrs.  Peele  so  the  other  day.  He  is  much  better.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  might  take  a  turn  for  the  worse  any 
day." 

"  Then  you  must  persuade  him  to  give  you  a 
divorce." 

"  Oh,  dear,  I  am  afraid  that  is  out  of  the  question. 
I  've  thought  of  it ;  but  —  you  don't  know  him." 

"  You  are  a  clever  woman :  now  look  up  your 
resources.  Enlist  the  family  on  your  side.  Tell  them 
that  you  are  about  to  leave,  never  to  return,  and  that 
you  are  on  the  road  to  become  a  famous  newspaper 
woman ;  that  if  they  will  persuade  your  husband  to  give 
you  a  divorce  you  will  drop  their  name ;  otherwise  that 
it  will  be  dinned  in  their  ears  for  the  next  twenty  years. 
Tell  them  that  we  intend  to  let  you  sign  hereafter. 
That  ought  to  fetch  them,  as  they  appear  to  look  upon 
the  newspaper  business  with  shuddering  horror.  And 
persuade  them  that  Beverly  needs  a  good  domestic  little 
wife  who  would  gladden  his  declining  years." 

"  I  'm  sorry  I  feel  in  this  mood,"  said  Patience, 
abruptly.  "  I  should  far  rather  it  had  been  the  other 
way  —  the  usual  way.  I  suppose  I  am  possessed  with 
what  Poe  calls  The  Imp  of  the  Perverse." 

"  My  dear  girl,  I  need  not  remind  you  that  it  is  just 
as  well  and  a  good  deal  better.  You  need  a  shaking  to 
wake  you  up,  though.  You  imagine  that  you  are  awake 
already,  but  you  are  not  —  not  by  a  long  sight.  You 
have  buried  your  nature  five  fathoms  deep.  Well,  time 
is  up.  I  must  be  off.  Think  over  what  I  have  said. 
Good-bye." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    361 


XVI 

ON  the  following  Thursday  morning  Patience  walked 
slowly  over  to  where  Beverly  sat  under  a  tree  on  one  of 
the  lawns,  reading  a  newspaper.  She  had  made  up  her 
mind  to  adopt  Steele's  advice,  but  had  deferred  the 
evil  moment  as  long  as  possible. 

"  Beverly,"  she  said  abruptly,  sitting  down  in  front  of 
him,  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

He  laid  down  the  newspaper  and  regarded  her  with 
eager  admiration.  She  had  carefully  selected  the  most 
unbecoming  frock  she  possessed,  a  sickly  green,  and 
twisted  her  hair  in  a  fashion  to  distort  the  fine  lines  of 
her  head.  Nevertheless,  she  looked  as  fresh  as  the 
morning,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with  excitement. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked.     "  Oh,  why  —  why  —  " 

"  Never  mind  !  I  am  going  to  have  a  business  talk 
with  you,  and  please  don't  get  excited.  If  you  do, 
you  '11  be  sure  to  have  a  pain,  you  know." 

"Well,  what  is  it?  It  does  n't  do  a  fellow  any  good 
to  keep  him  in  suspense." 

"  On  the  first  of  November  I  am  going  away  —  " 

"  You  are  not !  " 

"  And  I  shall  not  come  back  —  not  in  any  circum- 
stances. You  have  proved  that  your  attacks  are  more 
or  less  under  your  own  control.  A  sojourn  at  some 
foreign  baths  will  probably  cure  you.  I  have  given  you 
all  of  my  life  that  I  intend  to  give  you.  I  know  that 
self-sacrifice  is  the  ideal  of  happiness  of  some  women, 
but  it  is  not  mine.  When  I  leave  here  on  the  first  of 


362    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

November  it  will  be  forever.  There  is  no  inducement, 
material  nor  sentimental,  that  will  bring  me  back. 
Do  you  understand  that  much  clearly?" 

He  burst  into  a  volley  of  oaths,  and  beat  his  knees 
with  his  fists.  Patience  continued  as  soon  as  she  could 
be  heard :  — 

"  Now,  it  can  do  you  no  possible  good  to  retain  a 
legal  hold  on  me,  nor  can  you  care  to  hear  of  your 
name  becoming  familiar  in  Park  Row.  Give  me  my 
freedom,  and  I  will  take  my  own  name  —  " 

"You'll  get  no  divorce,"  he  roared,  "now  nor  ever. 
Do  you  understand  that  ?  I  '11  brace  up  and  live  until 
I  'm  ninety  —  by  God  I  will !  I  '11  go  abroad  and  live  at 
a  water  cure.  You  '11  never  be  the  wife  of  any  other 
man.  Do  you  understand  that?  " 

"  Oh,  Beverly,"  she  said,  breaking  suddenly,  "  don't 
be  cruel,  —  don't !  What  good  can  it  do  you  ?  Give  me 
my  freedom." 

He  grasped  her  wrists.  His  eyes  were  full  of  rage 
and  malevolence.  "  Do  you  want  to  marry  some  one 
else  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Some  damned  newspaper  man,  I 
suppose." 

Patience  stood  up  and  shook  him  off.  "  If  ever  I 
do  marry  another  man,"  she  said  cuttingly,  "  you  may 
be  sure  he  will  have  brains  this  time,  and  that  he  will 
also  be  a  gentleman.  The  most  vulgar  persons  I 
have  ever  known  have  been  socially  the  most  highly 
placed." 

As  she  moved  away  he  sprang  after  her  and  caught 
her  arm.  "  Now  look  here,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "  you  '11 
neither  marry,  nor  will  you  have  a  lover,  unless  you 
want  all  New  York  to  know  it.  The  moment  you  leave 
this  place  a  detective  goes  after  you.  You  '11  do  nothing 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    363 

that  I  don't  know.  I  may  not  have  brains,  but  I  '11  get 
the  best  of  you  all  the  same." 

Patience  flung  him  off  and  went  straight  to  Mrs. 
Peele.  Her  mother-in-law  watched  her  with  narrowed 
eyes  until  she  had  finished,  then  remarked  unex- 
pectedly :  "  I  shall  do  my  best  to  make  my  son 
divorce  you.  If  you  intend  to  leave  us  I  prefer  that  the 
rupture  should  be  complete.  As  you  suggest,  I  have  no 
desire  to  see  the  name  of  Peele  signed  to  newspaper 
articles.  Moreover,  I  believe  I  can  persuade  my  son  to 
marry  again, —  a  woman  of  his  own  station,  who  will 
not  desecrate  the  name  of  wife ;  and  who,"  with  sudden 
violence,  "will  give  this  house  an  heir."  She  paused 
a  moment  to  recover  herself,  then  continued  more 
calmly  :  "  I  have  talked  the  matter  over  with  my  hus- 
band, and  he  agrees  with  me.  Of  course,  you  will 
expect  no  alimony." 

"  I  don't  want  alimony.  I  make  more  with  my  pen 
than  Beverly  ever  allowed  me." 

The  red  came  into  Mrs.  Peele's  face.  "  My  son  was 
quite  as  generous  as  was  to  be  expected.  Moreover,  he 
had  the  right  to  demand  that  his  wife  should  not  come 
to  him  empty  handed.  I  shall  speak  to  Beverly." 

An  hour  later  Patience  met  Mrs.  Peele  in  the  side 
hall.  The.  older  woman  looked  flushed  and  excited. 
"  I  have  had  a  most  terrible  interview  with  Beverly," 
she  exclaimed.  "  I  can  do  nothing  with  him.  You 
little  fool,  why  didn't  you  swear  that  you  did  not  want 
to  marry  another  man  ?  Heaven  knows  I  should  prefer 
to  have  you  take  another  name  as  soon  as  possible  ;  but 
you  have  ruined  your  chances  by  letting  Beverly  suspect 
the  truth.'1 

Patience  sank  upon  a  chair,  and  sat  for  a  long  while 


364    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

staring  straight  before  her.  She  felt  the  incarnation  of 
rage  and  hate.  Her  lovely  face  was  set  and  repellent. 
She  came  to  herself  with  a  start,  and  wondered  if  she  had 
ever  had  any  womanly  impulses. 

She  had  never  wanted  anything  in  her  life  as  much 
as  she  wanted  to  marry  Morgan  Steele.  His  very 
unlikeness  to  all  her  old  ideals  fascinated  her,  and  she 
was  convinced  that  she  was  profoundly  in  love.  She 
could  hardly  imagine  what  life  with  him  would  be  like, 
and  was  the  more  curious  to  ascertain ;  and  the  obsta- 
cles enraged  her  impatient  spirit. 

The  butler  left  the  dining-room  to  announce  luncheon. 

"Send  mine  up  to  my  room,"  she  said.  As  she 
reached  the  first  landing  of  the  stair  she  turned  to  him 
suddenly.  "  Tell  John  to  go  to  New  York  this  after- 
noon, and  have  Mr.  Beverly's  morphine  bottle  filled. 
He  took  the  last  last  night  and  he  may  need  it  again 
before  I  go  down  myself.  Don't  fail  to  tell  him. 
The  bottle  is  in  the  lavatory." 

That  afternoon  she  met' Steele  at  the  edge  of  the 
wood. 

"  I  could  not  keep  still,"  she  said.  "  My  brain  feels 
on  fire." 

He  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm  and  held  it 
tenderly.  "What  is  it?  "  he  asked.  "  Did  you  speak, 
and  was  it  disagreeable  ?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you  in  a  minute.  Just  now  it  is  enough  to 
feel  you  here." 

"  I  can  only  stay  an  hour.  I  should  not  have  come 
at  all,  but  I  could  not  stay  away." 

When  they  reached  the  hammocks  Patience  flung 
herself  into  hers  and  told  the  story  of  the  morn- 
ing with  dramatic  indignation.  Then,  insensibly,  she 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    365 

drifted  into  the  story  of  her  married  life,  and  described 
her  intense  hatred  and  loathing  of  her  husband. 

"  It  was  all  my  own  fault,"  she  said  in  conclusion. 
"  I  married  him  with  my  eyes  open ;  but  all  the  same 
I  hate  him.  Sometimes  I  felt,  and  feel  yet,  fairly 
murderous.  I  seem  to  have  a  terrible  nature  —  does  it 
make  you  hate  me?  " 

He  laughed.  "  No,  I  don't  hate  you,  and  you  know 
it  quite  as  well  as  I  do.  You  have  wonderful  possibili- 
ties —  but  I  can't  quite  make  up  my  mind  that  I  am 
the  man —  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are.  I  could  love  you  as  much  as  I 
hate  Beverly  Peele." 

"  Well,  if  you  think  so  it  amounts  to  the  same  thing, 
for  a  while  at  least.  I  shall  come  again  in  a  few  days. 
I  '11  write  you.  If  your  husband  cannot  be  induced  to 
change  his  mind  I  '11  talk  to  you  about  a  paper  that 
has  been  offered  to  me  in  Texas ;  but  if  you  prefer  it 
the  other  way,  I  '11  leave  you  alone  without  a  word." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  !  There  are  some  words  I  hate, 
—  the  words  free-love  and  adultery.  I  don't  want  to 
be  exploited  in  the  newspapers,  and  I  don't  want  to 
be  insulted  by  my  landlord.  After  all,  expediency  is 
the  source  of  all  morality.  My  life  with  you  would  be 
a  thousand  times  better  than  it  was  with  Beverly  Peele ; 
but  I  suspect  that  we  can't  violate  certain  moTal 
laws  that  heredity  has  made  part  of  our  brain  fibre, 
without  ultimate  regret,  even  when  we  keep  the  world 
in  ignorance.  I  suffered  horribly  once,  although  I  had 
not  defied  the  conventions.  But  I  think  we  must  have 
everything,  or  the  large  share  of  herself  that  Nature  has 
given  each  of  us  rebels,  —  in  other  words,  the  ideal  is 
not  complete." 


366    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  When  you  are  very  much  in  love/'  he  said  dryly, 
"  you  won't  analyse." 

Contrary  to  her  habit,  she  remained  in  the  wood  for 
some  time  after  he  left  her.  Suddenly  she  was  aroused 
from  her  reverie  by  a  peculiar  heavy  sound,  as  of  a 
man  crawling.  She  listened  intently,  her  hair  stiffen- 
ing :  the  house  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  The 
sound  continued  steadily.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
fled  from  the  wood.  As  she  ran  up  the  hill  beyond, 
she  glanced  fearfully  over  her  shoulder.  A  man  shot 
from  the  lower  edge  of  the  wood  and  ran  toward  the 
stables. 


XVII 

AN  hour  after  midnight  Patience  ran  into  Honora's 
room  and  shook  her  violently. 

"  Honora  !  Honora  !  "  she  cried,  "  something  is  the 
matter  with  Beverly.  I  can't  wake  him  up." 

Honora  stretched  herself  languidly.  Her  eyelids 
fluttered  a  moment,  then  lifted.  She  said  sleepily : 

"What  is  it,  Patience?" 

"  Beverly  !  Go  to  him  —  quick  —  while  I  wake  up 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Peele,  and  send  for  the  doctor.  He 
dropped  his  own  morphine  to-night,  and  he  must  have 
taken  too  much." 

A  few  moments  later  there  was  an  alarmed  group  of 
people  at  Beverly  Peek's  bedside,  and  the  butler  could 
be  heard  at  the  telephone  demanding  the  doctor. 

Mr.  Peele  was  in  his  pyjamas,  and  Patience  struggled 
with  an  importunate  desire  to  tell  him  that  his  hair 
stood  on  end.  Mrs.  Peele's  back  hair  was  in  a  scant 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    367 

braid ;  the  front  locks  were  on  pins.  Her  skin  looked 
pallid  and  old.  Honora,  as  usual,  looked  like  a  vision 
from  heaven.  Hal  and  her  husband  were  in  Newport, 
and  there  were  no  guests  at  Peele  Manor. 

"Are  you  sure,"  asked  Mr.  Peele,  as  precisely  as  if 
his  hair  was  parted  in  the  middle  and  plastered  on 
each  side,  "  that  anything  is  the  matter  ?  Does  not 
the  morphine  always  put  him  to  sleep?  " 

"  Not  at  once.  You  see  he  takes  it  internally,  and 
it 's  twenty  minutes  or  half  an  hour  before  it  takes  effect. 
During  that  time  he  always  groans,  for  he  never  takes  it 
until  the  last  minute.  I  heard  him  get  up  and  return 
to  bed ;  and  then  I  knew  something  must  be  the  matter 
because  he  was  so  quiet  —  " 

"  How  could  you  let  him  drop  it  himself?  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Peele,  passionately.  "How  could  you?  What 
are  you  here  for?  " 

"  I  offered  to  drop  it  for  him,  but  he  would  n't  let  me. 
I  did  n't  insist,  as  he  always  put  it  off —  and  we  had 
had  a  quarrel  —  " 

"  My  poor  son  !  " 

"  Well,  something 's  got  to  be  done,"  said  Mr.  Peele. 
"  I  don't  like  the  way  he  's  beginning  to  breathe. 
There  are  one  or  two  things  we  can  do  until  the 
doctor  comes." 

He  raised  Beverly's  arms  above  the  head,  brought 
them  down  and  pressed  them  into  the  chest,  repeating 
the  act  twenty  or  thirty  times.  Beverly  meanwhile  was 
breathing  stertorously. 

"  Can't  I  do  something?  "  cried  his  mother,  distract- 
edly. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  walk  him,"  said  Mr.  Peele, 
whose  mouth  was  tightening.  "  Call  Hickman." 


368    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

The  butler  was  waiting  in  the  hall,  and  came  at  once. 
He  helped  Mr.  Peele  to  lift  the  young  man  from  the 
bed.  The  stalwart  figure  hung  limply  between  them  : 
he  was  as  collapsed  as  the  new  dead.  Mr.  Peele  and 
Hickman  walked  him  up  and  down  the  long  line  of 
rooms,  shaking  him  vigorously  from  time  to  time; 
but  they  would  have  produced  as  much  effect  upon 
the  bolster.  Mrs.  Peele  had  sunk  into  a  chair.  She 
sat  with  compressed  lips,  and  dilating  eyes  fixed  upon 
Patience.  Honora  knelt  beside  her,  patting  her  hand. 
After  a  time  she  arose,  liberated  Mrs.  Peele's  hair  from 
its  braid  and  steels,  and  arranged  it  with  deft  hands, 
fetching  some  of  her  own  amber  pins. 

Patience  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  She  was 
beginning  to  feel  hopelessly  sleepy.  The  day's  excite- 
ment had  sapped  her  nerves.  It  was  now  nearly  two 
o'clock,  and  she  had  not  slept.  Beverly  had  been  ill 
the  night  before  and  given  her  little  rest.  She  felt  bit- 
terly ashamed  of  herself;  but  every  few  moments  she 
was  obliged  to  cover  her  face  with  her  handkerchief  to 
conceal  a  yawn.  Once  or  twice  her  head  dropped 
suddenly. 

The  last  time  she  sat  up  with  a  gasp.  Mrs.  Peele 
groaned.  The  two  men  had  entered  with  their  burden. 
Beverly's  face  was  blue,  and  he  breathed  infrequently. 

"His  body  is  bathed  in  a  cold  perspiration,"  said 
Mr.  Peele.  "  Will  that  doctor  never  come  ?  " 

"  O  my  God  ! "  murmured  Mrs.  Peele. 

Patience  left  the  bed  and  sat  on  the  sill  of  the  win- 
dow. The  night  was  very  hot  and  still.  A  shuddering 
horror  took  possession  of  her.  A  palpable  presence 
seemed  skimming  the  dark  gulf  under  the  window. 
She  sat  with  distended  eyes,  half  expecting'  to  see  a 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    369 

long  arm  reach  past  her  and  pluck  the  soul  from  the 
unconscious  man  on  the  bed.  She  closed  her  eyes  and 
put  her  fingers  in  her  ears.  When  she  removed  them 
she  drew  a  long  breath. 

"The  doctor  is  coming,"  she  said.  "I  hear  the 
wheels." 

"Did  you  make  him  understand  what  was  the 
matter?  "  asked  Mr.  Peele  of  the  butler. 

"Yes,  sir.  He  said  he  would  bring  everything 
necessary." 

When  the  doctor  came  in  he  bent  over  the  sick  man 
and  lifted  his  eyelids. 

"It  is  morphine  poisoning,  sure  enough,"  he  said. 
"  Have  some  black  coffee  made.  I  shall  use  the  elec- 
tricity meanwhile.  Better  telegraph  to  New  York.  1 
don't  like  this  case,  and  don't  want  it  alone." 

Patience  watched  them  mechanically  for  an  hour, 
then  slipped  into  her  own  room  and  into  her  bed. 
Nature  had  conquered  her.  Another  moment,  and  she 
would  have  fallen  to  the  floor  in  sleep. 

Four  hours  later  she  was  awakened  by  a  vigorous 
shaking  of  her  shoulder. 

She  sat  upright  and  glanced  about  wildly.  "  What 
is  it?  What  is  the  matter?"  she  cried.  "I  had  such 
a  horrible  dream.  I  thought  Beverly  was  drowning 
me  — holding  me  down  under  the  water —  " 

"  Your  husband  is  dead,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Do  you 
wish  to  go  to  him?  " 

Patience  shrank  under  the  bedclothes,  pulling  them 
about  her  head.  After  the  doctor  had  gone  she  ran 
over  to  a  spare  room,  opened  all  the  windows  to 
admit  light,  then  went  to  bed  and  slept  until  late  in  the 
day. 

24 


BOOK    V 


BOOK    V 


I 


THE  editor-in-chief  of  the  New  York  "  Eye  "  sat  in  the 
large  revolving-chair  in  his  private  room,  dictating  to  a 
typewriter  answers  to  the  great  pile  of  letters  on  the 
desk  before  him.  He  opened  one  letter  after  another 
with  expert  swiftness,  glanced  over  it,  gave  it  a  few  lines 
of  response,  or  tossed  it,  half  read,  into  a  wastebasket. 
But  although  his  heed  to  duty  was  alert,  his  brow  was 
contracted,  and  he  was  carrying  on  a  double  train  oi 
thought.  The  subconsciousness  was  not  pleasant. 

Arnold  Sturges  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men 
in  New  York.  Not  thirty-three,  he  had  been  editor-in- 
chief  of  one  of  the  great  newspapers  of  the  United  States 
for  a  year  and  a  half.  He  had  elected  journalism  as  the 
safety-valve  for  a  superabundant  nervous  energy  and  a 
means  to  gratify  ambition  and  love  of  power.  Although 
possessed  of  a  little  fortune  he  had  begun  his  career  on 
the  city  staff.  As  a  reporter  he  had  worked  as  hard  as 
if  twenty-five  dollars  a  week  stood  between  him  and 
starvation.  He  had  risen  rapidly  from  one  editorship 
to  another,  and  still  no  half  naked  man  down  in 
the  printing-rooms  worked  more  lustily.  His  rushing 
career  was  by  no  means  due  to  work  alone,  nor  yet  to 
his  superlative  cleverness :  it  was  said  of  him  that  he 


374    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

could  smell  news  a  week  off,  and  not  only  ahead  but 
backward  ;  by  which  was  meant  that  he  knew  the  subtle 
and  valuable  relation  that  old  news  occasionally  holds  to 
that  of  the  moment.  Naturally,  he  had  made  many 
brilliant  and  memorable  coups. 

When  friends  had  blocked  his  way  he  had  thrust 
them  aside  as  lightly  as  he  seemed  to  spurn  less  material 
obstacles.  Body  and  brain  he  was  the  dauntless  servant 
of  the  "  Eye ;  "  its  personality  was  his ;  his  very  nerves 
were  tuned  to  its  sensational  policy.  He  lived  for  it, 
and  would  have  died  for  it.  He  hardly  regarded  him- 
self as  an  individual,  although  his  fine  intellect,  his  bold 
executive  ability,  his  splendid  suggestions,  had  been 
large  factors  in  the  success  of  the  paper. 

Cold,  cruel,  charming,  calculating,  enthusiastic,  au- 
dacious, unscrupulous,  fearless,  relentless,  brilliant,  ex- 
ecutive, had  he  been  a  factor  in  the  French  Revolution 
his  name  would  have  become  infamously  immortal.  As 
it  was,  he  was  supreme  in  the  field  he  had  deliberately 
chosen  ten  years  before,  immediately  after  graduating 
from  Harvard  with  such  honours  that  the  faculty  had  sent 
for  and  severally  congratulated  him  upon  his  future. 

He  lived  with  a  soubrette  with  whom  he  spent  his 
evenings,  playing  parchisi. 

To-day  he  was  in  a  serious  quandary.  Three  days 
before  he  had  paid  fifteen  hundred  dollars  for  a  scanda- 
lous story  relative  to  one  of  the  most  fashionable  fam- 
ilies in  Westchester  County,  —  a  story  which  bore  truth 
on  the  face  of  it,  but  which  he  had  not  yet  published,  as 
it  was  necessary  to  go  through  the  form  of  verification. 
The  family  meanwhile  had  heard  of  the  sale,  and  brought 
tremendous  pressure  to  bear  upon  him  to  suppress  the 
story:  the  owner  of  the  "Eye"  was  travelling  in 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    375 

Europe.  Lawyers  had  called  and  harangued.  A  woman 
had  gone  to  his  apartment  and  wept  at  his  feet.  A 
man  had  flourished  a  pistol.  For  tears  and  threats  he 
cared  nothing,  but  it  had  occurred  to  him  when  too  late 
that  the  owner  of  the  "  Eye  "  purposed  to  build  in 
Westchester  County  and  had  aspirations  to  the  Country 
Club.  Despite  the  fact  that  the  story  would  make  the 
sensation  of  the  day,  the  owner  might  be  moved  to  fury. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  had  paid  fifteen  hundred  dollars 
for  the  facts,  and  must  justify  himself.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  his  career  that  he  had  made  a  serious  mistake, 
and  he  was  in  a  cold  rage. 

The  man  would  have  given  pleasure  to  a  physiogno- 
mist ;  he  was  a  type  so  marked,  so  essentially  modern, 
that  an  amateur  could  not  have  misplaced  him,  as  one 
easily  could  so  commonplace  a  type  as  Beverly  Peele. 
His  forehead  was  full  and  wide,  his  grey  eyes  piercing, 
restless,  hard  as  ice.  The  nose  was  finely  cut,  the 
mouth  licentious,  the  face  thin  and  sallow.  At  each 
extremity  of  the  jaw  was  an  abnormal  development  of 
muscle.  His  small  thin  figure  was  as  lithe  as  a  panther, 
and  so  crowded  with  pure  nerve  force  that  it  seemed  to 
shed  electricity.  His  attire  was  fashionable  and  elegant. 
In  flannel  shirt  and  overalls  he  would  still  have  looked 
a  product  of  the  higher  civilisation. 

The  door  opened.  He  wheeled  about  with  a  frown, 
then  smiled  pleasantly. 

"  Oh,  it 's  you,  Van,"  he  said.  "  I  '11  be  through  in  a 
minute.  Sit  down." 

The  man  that  had  entered  bore  so  striking  a  resem- 
blance to  Sturges  that  the  two  men  might  have  been 
twins.  He  was,  in  fact,  three  years  younger  than  his 
brother.  Yet  there  were  some  points  of  difference.  Van 


376    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Cortlandt  Sturges'  mouth  was  a  straight  line,  his  hair 
was  many  shades  lighter,  almost  flaxen,  and  he  was 
several  inches  taller.  But  the  expression  of  the  upper 
part  of  the  two  faces  was  identical.  He,  too,  had  left 
Harvard  with  high  honours,  and  ambition  devoured  him. 
Although  only  thirty  he  was  District  Attorney  of  West- 
chester  County.  But  as  yet  his  fame  had  not  gone 
beyond  its  borders,  although  within  them  his  dry 
incisive  bitter  eloquence  had  carried  many  juries. 
Criminals  in  their  cells  thought  on  him  with  terror.  He 
had  sent  several  men  to  the  chair,  but  no  man  that  had 
been  defended  by  Garan  Bourke.  People  said  of  him 
lightly  that  he  would  not  go  out  of  his  way  to  be  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States  until  he  had  thrashed  Bourke 
on  his  own  ground. 

"  I  'd  like  ten  minutes  as  soon  as  possible,"  he  said. 
"I  have  an  important  communication  to  make." 

"  I  '11  hear  it  now."  To  the  typewriter  :  "  You  can 
go.  Don't  return  until  I  ring,  and  tell  Tom  to  stand 
in  front  of  the  door  and  admit  no  one.  —  Well,  what 
is  it?" 

"  Have  you  made  up  your  mind  to  publish  that  West- 
chester  County  scandal?  " 

"How  do  you  know  anything  about  that?  " 

"They  sent  for  me  yesterday  and  besought  me  to 
use  my  influence  with  you.  I  am  engaged  to  the 
woman's  sister." 

"  The  devil  you  are  !  This  is  bad  —  bad.  But  I 
can't  do  anything.  I  paid  fifteen  hundred  dollars  for 
that  story." 

"  I  know  you  did.  If  I  could  give  you  a  better, 
would  you  let  that  go?" 

"  Would  n't  I  ?     It 's  a  white  elephant.      I  thought 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    377 

you  did  n't  know  me  so  little  as  to  come  here  with 
sentiment.     Fire  away." 

"Of  course  you  remember  the  Gardiner  Peeles, 
although  you  never  go  anywhere.  You  went  to  one  or 
two  children's  parties  there  when  you  were  a  kid. 
Well,  Beverly  Peele  died  suddenly  night  before  last, 
supposedly  of  an  overdose  of  morphine  administered 
by  himself.  Now,  old  Lewis,  the  family  physician,  is  a 
great  friend  of  mine,  and  likely  to  be  communicative  in 
his  cups.  Last  night  he  dined  with  me,  and  after  he 
was  pretty  well  loaded  told  me  a  remarkable  yarn.  It 
seems  that  Mrs.  Beverly  had  not  been  on  good  terms 
with  her  husband  since  the  early  days  of  their  marriage, 
and  had  threatened  to  leave  him  from  time  to  time. 
He  treated  her  well,  and  was  desperately  in  love  with 
her.  She,  as  far  as  is  known,  had  nothing  against  him 
but  personal  dislike.  She  is  said  to  have  frequently 
expressed  hatred  of  him  in  violent  terms.  Well,  winter 
before  last  she  left  him,  came  to  New  York,  and  went  to 
work  on  the  '  Day.'  The  Peeles  did  everything  to 
induce  her  to  return,  but  she  only  consented  to  go 
back  temporarily  this  summer  to  nurse  her  husband, 
who  had  been  attacked  with  a  chronic  but  not  imme- 
diately fatal  complaint.  Meanwhile  it  seems  she  had 
fallen  in  love  with  some  one,  and  she  met  him  every 
Thursday  in  a  wood.  Jim,  a  stable  boy,  who  had  been 
brought  up  on  the  place  and  was  devoted  to  Beverly 
Peele,  watched  her,  but  said  nothing  to  his  master,  as 
he  was  cautiously  waiting  for  some  proof  of  criminality. 
On  the  afternoon  of  Peele's  death  there  was  a  tremen- 
dous scene  between  the  lovers :  young  Mrs.  Peele  tell- 
ing a  furious  story  of  her  husband's  refusal  to  give  her 
divorce,  of  his  threat  to  have  her  watched,  to  expose 


37 8    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

her  if  she  took  a  lover,  and  to  live  until  ninety  if 
he  had  to  go  abroad  and  live  at  a  foreign  spa.  She 
reiterated  that  she  hated  him,  and  had  frequently  had 
the  impulse  to  murder  him.  The  lover  invited  her  to 
go  to  Texas,  and  she  demurred,  as  she  disliked  scandal. 
Jim  told  this  story  to  Lewis  when  driving  him  home 
from  the  death-bed,  —  his  own  horse  had  cast  a  shoe, 
—  and  the  doctor  advised  him  to  keep  quiet. 

"  The  night  after  the  interview  between  the  lovers —  or 
rather  the  following  morning  —  Peele  died  of  an  over- 
dose of  morphine.  She  says  he  took  it  himself;  but  it 
is  a  remarkable  fact  that  never  before  —  not  in  a  single 
instance  —  had  he  dropped  the  morphine  himself.  He 
had  had  a  nurse  from  the  first,  and  when  the  pain  was 
on  he  shook  like  a  leaf.  And  yet  she  asserts  that  she 
did  not  drop  it  that  particular  night,  and  adds  —  by 
way  of  explanation  —  that  they  had  had  a  violent  quar- 
rel and  he  had  refused  to  let  her  wait  on  him.  While 
he  was  dying  and  the  others  were  working  over  him, 
she  behaved  in  the  most  heartless  manner,  —  deliber- 
ately went  to  bed  in  the  next  room  and  went  to  sleep. 
When  Lewis  awakened  her,  however,  and  told  her  that 
Peele  was  dead,  she  displayed  symptoms  of  abject 
terror,  and  tore  across  the  hall  and  locked  herself  in 
another  room.  Now,  what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

Sturges'  eyes  were  glittering  like  smoked  diamonds. 
"My  God!"  he  cried.  "That's  a  grand  story!  a 
corker !  I  '11  have  Bart  Tripp,  the  best  detective  re- 
porter in  New  York,  up  there  inside  of  two  hours. 
Between  whiskey  and  gold  he  '11  get  every  fact  out  of 
the  servants  they  've  got.  It 's  worth  two  of  the  other. 
A  young,  beautiful,  swagger  woman  accused  of  murder- 
ing her  husband,  and  that  husband  a  Peele  of  Peele 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    379 

Manor !     The  *  Eye  '  will  be  read  in  the  very  bowels 

of  the  earth." 

"  And  I  shall  conduct  the  case  for  the  prosecution." 
"  The  '  Eye  '  will  let  people  know  it.     Don't  worry 

about  that.     Does  Lewis  remember  that  he  told  you?  " 
"  Not  a  word." 


II 


ON  the  following  Sunday  Patience  arose  early.  Beverly 
had  been  in  the  family  vault  down  in  the  hollow  for  a 
week.  She  had  wished  to  leave  immediately  after  the 
funeral,  but  had  remained  at  the  insistence  of  Hal,  who 
had  returned  at  once,  and  was  doubly  depressed  by  her 
brother's  death  and  the  gloomy  house.  Mrs.  Peele  had 
gone  to  bed  with  a  violent  attack  of  neuralgia  some 
days  ago,  and  had  not  risen  since.  Honora  was  in  con- 
stant attendance.  Mr.  Peele  never  opened  his  lips 
except  to  ask  for  what  he  wanted.  Burr,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  spent  the  days  in  New  York  or  at  a  private 
club  house  in  the  neighbourhood. 

Patience  had  moved  into  a  room  adjoining  Hal's. 
She  kept  the  light  burning  all  night. 

"  I  '11  be  all  right  when  I  get  back  to  New  York,"  she 
said,  "  but  I  have  a  horror  of  death.  I  can't  help  it." 

"Who  has  n't?  "  asked  Hal.  "  I  wish  I  were  a  man 
—  or  could  be  as  selfish  as  one." 

On  this  Sunday  morning  Patience  rose  after  a  rest- 
less night,  and  went  downstairs  as  soon  as  she  was 
dressed.  The  "  Day  "  and  the  "  Eye  "  —  Burr's 
favorite  newspaper  —  lay  on  a  table  in  the  hall.  She 
carried  them  into  the  library  and  turned  them  over 


380    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

listlessly,  then  remembered  that  a  great  Westchester 
County  scandal  had  been  promised  for  the  Sunday 
"  Eye  "  by  the  issue  of  the  day  before,  and  that  Hal 
and  Burr  were  on  the  alert,  suspecting  that  they  half 
knew  the  story  already. 

She  opened  the  "  Eye  "  and  glanced  at  the  head- 
lines of  the  first  page.  In  the  place  of  honour,  the 
extreme  left  hand  column,  she  found  her  story  : 

WAS   IT   MURDER? 

AN   OLD   MANOR   HOUSE   IN    WESTCHESTER   COUNTY   MAY 
HAVE   BEEN   THE   THEATRE   OF   A   GREAT   CRIME  ! 
A   YOUNG  WIFE   SUSPECTED   OF   THE   FOUL   DEED  ! 

Patience  read  ten  lines.  Then  she  stumbled  to 
her  feet,  spilling  the  papers  to  the  floor.  Her  skin 
felt  cold  and  wet,  her  knees  trembled,  her  hands 
moved  spasmodically.  Something  within  her  seemed 
disintegrating. 

She  got  to  the  door  and  up  to  her  room.  Aside  from 
the  horror  which  sat  in  each  nerve  centre  and  jabbered, 
she  was  conscious  of  but  one  idea  :  she  must  fly.  She 
flung  off  her  robe  and  put  on  the  black  frock  she  had 
bought  out  of  deference  to  the  family's  grief.  She 
scratched  herself  and  thrust  the  buttons  into  the  wrong 
holes,  but  she  could  call  no  one  to  her  assistance.  She 
was  thankful  it  was  so  early ;  she  could  get  away  with- 
out encountering  any  of  the  family.  She  was  about  to 
put  on  her  black  bonnet  when  her  muddled  conscious- 
ness emitted  another  flash  and  bade  her  disguise  her- 
self; detectives  would  have  orders  to  search  for  a 
woman  in  weeds.  She  tore  off  the  mourning  frock, 
dropping  it  to  the  floor,  and  got  herself  into  a  grey  one, 
then  pinned  on  a  grey  hat  trimmed  with  pink  flowers. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    381 

She  thrust  a  few  things  into  a  bag,  and  ran  down  the 
stair.  She  reached  the  station  in  time  to  flag  the  8.30 
train  for  New  York.  Some  one  else  boarded  the  same 
train,  but  she  did  not  see  him. 

Having  accomplished  her  flight,  her  thoughts  trav- 
elled to  the  objective  point.  Inevitably  her  woman's 
instinct  turned  to  the  man  whose  duty  it  was  to  protect 
her.  She  convinced  herself  femininely  that  if  she 
could  reach  him  all  would  be  well ;  he  not  only  loved 
her,  but  he  was  so  amazingly  clever. 

At  the  station  in  New  York  she  walked  deliberately 
to  a  cab  and  gave  the  man  Morgan  Steele 's  address. 
She  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  con- 
sequently did  not  see  that  the  man  who  had  boarded 
the  train  at  Peele  Manor  stood  at  her  elbow  when  she 
gave  the  order,  and  followed  her  immediately. 

When  the  cab  reached  the  house  in  which  Morgan 
Steele  lived,  she  dismissed  it  and  ran  up  the  steps.  She 
rang  again  and  again,  pacing  the  narrow  stoop  in  an 
agony  of  fear  and  impatience.  At  the  end  of  ten 
minutes  an  irritable  half  dressed  Frenchman  came 
shuffling  down  the  stairs.  There  were  no  curtains  on 
the  door,  and  the  man's  expression  struck  new  terror 
to  her  heart. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  surlily,  as  he  opened  the 
door. 

"  I  —  I  —  must  see  Mr.  Steele." 

"  Mr.  Steele  is  asleep.  He  does  not  receive  visitors 
at  this  hour." 

"  I  must  see  him."  Her  cheeks  were  flaming  under 
the  man's  scrutiny.  "  Here,"  she  opened  her  purse 
and  gave  him  a  bill,  then  pushed  him  aside  and  ran 
upstairs.  She  remembered  that  Steele  had  told  her 


382    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

that  his  rooms  were  on  the  second  floor,  front.  The 
halls  were  as  dark  as  midnight.  She  had  to  feel  with 
her  hands  for  a  door.  There  was  one  at  the  end 
facing  the  hall.  She  knocked  so  loudly  that  Steele 
sprang  out  of  bed. 

"What  is  it?"  he  cried. 

"  It  is  I.     Open  the  door  —  quick  !  " 

Steele  made  no  reply  until  he  opened  a  door  at  the 
side  of  the  hall.  He  had  tied  himself  into  a  bath 
robe. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  he  said,  "  why  have  you  come 
here?  Are  you  mad?" 

"  Oh,  I  think  I  am.  Lock  the  door  —  quick.  Oh, 
have  n't  you  heard  ?  Did  n't  you  know  about  it  before  ? 
The  'Day'  is  right  next  door  to  the  'Eye.'  Why 
didn't  you  warn  me?" 

"What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about?  What  has 
happened?  Do  sit  down  and  calm  yourself." 

"  The  '  Eye  '  is  out  with  a  big  story  that  I  murdered 
Beverly  Peele.  That  is  what  is  the  matter." 

"  What  ?  Oh,  you  poor  child  !  The  damned  ras- 
cals !  But  you  should  n't  have  come  here.  Don't  you 
know  that  the  '  Eye  '  will  watch  every  move  you  make  ? 
It  takes  the  clever  woman  to  do  the  wrong  thing,  every 
time  !  " 

He  went  to  the  window  and  peered  out,  then  clenched 
his  teeth,  and  raising  his  arm  brought  it  down  violently. 

"They  can't  put  me  in  prison,  can  they?" 

He  pressed  his  finger  to  a  bell.  "  I  must  read  what 
they  have  to  say.  They  are  very  wary,  and  never 
would  have  printed  such  a  story  unless  they  had  had  a 
good  deal  of  circumstantial  evidence.  But  they  will 
need  a  terrible  lot  to  convict  you.  Don't  worry." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    383 

" Oh,  how  can  you  be  so  cool? " 

"Some  one  has  to  be  cool,  my  dear  girl.  If  you 
cannot  think  I  must  think  for  you."  A  man  has  not 
much  sentiment  at  that  hour  of  the  morning;  still, 
Steele  had  sympathy  in  his  nature,  and  was  profoundly 
disturbed. 

The  servant  came  up  with  the  newspapers,  and 
Steele  ordered  coffee  and  rolls  from  the  restaurant 
below.  He  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  opened  the 
"  Eye,"  and  read  the  story  through  deliberately,  word 
for  word,  while  Patience  walked  nervously  up  and 
down  the  room.  When  he  had  finished  he  laid  the 
newspaper  on  the  table. 

"It's  a  damned  bad  case,"  he  said. 

"  You  don't  believe  I  did  it,  do  you?  " 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  with  his  peculiarly 
searching  gaze.  "No,"  he  said,  "you  didn't  do  it. 
You  'd  be  even  more  interesting  if  you  had.  But 
that  Js  not  the  question.  We  Ve  got  to  make  others 
believe  you  did  n't  do  it.  The  first  thing  for  you  to  do 
is  to  go  directly  back  to  Peele  Manor.  Tell  them  you 
came  up  to  see  Miss  Merrien  and  to  engage  rooms. 
Anything  you  like  —  only  go  back  there  and  wait.  If 
you  are  arrested,  it  must  be  from  there,  and  there  must 
be  no  suggestion  of  fear  on  your  part  —  you  must 
brace  up  and  carry  it  off." 

The  waiter  entered  with  the  coffee  and  rolls,  and 
Steele  made  her  drink  and  eat. 

"  It  is  9.45,"  he  said.  "You  can  catch  a  train  that 
goes  between  ten  and  eleven." 

When  Patience  had  finished  she  drew  on  her  gloves. 
"  I  '11  go,"  she  said,  "  and  I  '11  try  to  do  as  you  say. 
I  Ve  made  a  fool  of  myself,  but  I  won't  again  —  I 


384    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

promise.  I  can  be  as  cold  as  stone,  you  know.  That 's 
the  New  England  part  of  me.  And  so  long  as  I  know 
that  you  care  I  sha'n't  break  down  —  in  public  at 
least." 

"  Oh,  I  care  fast  enough  —  poor  little  woman. 
Here,  leave  that  bag,  for  heaven's  sake.  You  must  n't 
go  back  with  that." 


Ill 


WHEN  Patience  arrived  at  Peele  Manor  she  knew 
before  she  reached  the  house  that  her  story  had  been 
read  and  told.  The  gardener  turned  on  his  heel  as 
she  passed  him  and  walked  hastily  away.  A  new  stable 
boy  stared  at  her  until  she  thought  his  eyes  would  fly 
from  their  sockets. 

As  she  entered  the  front  door,  Hal  ran  forward  and 
threw  her  arms  about  her. 

"  Oh,  Patience  !  Patience  !  "  she  sobbed  hysterically. 
"  That  brutal  paper !  How  could  they  do  such  a 
thing?  Have  they  no  heart  nor  soul?" 

"You  don't  believe  it  then?"  said  Patience,  grate- 
fully. 

"  Of  course  I  don't  believe  it  —  believe  such  a  thing 
of  you !  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  you  Ve  come  back.  They 
were  all  sure  you  'd  run  away ;  but  I  knew  you  had  n't. 
It  is  only  the  guilty  that  hide  —  But  why  on  earth  did 
you  put  on  that  grey  frock?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  How  can  one  know  what  one  's 
doing —  What  does  your  father  say?  " 

The  girls  were  in  one  of  the  small  reception-rooms. 
Hal  removed  Patience's  hat  and  gloves. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    385 

"  Oh,  this  has  been  the  most  terrible  day  of  my 
life,"  she  said  evasively.  "  But  you  must  be  prudent, 
Patience  dear.  You  must  wear  black —  What  is  it? " 

A  servant  had  entered  the  room. 

"  Mr.  Peele  would  like  to  see  Mrs.  Beverly  in  the 
library  !  " 

Patience  rose  and  shook  herself  a  little,  as  if  she 
would  shake  her  nerves  into  place.  Hal's  face  flushed, 
and  she  turned  away. 

As  Patience  crossed  the  hall  she  met  Latimer  Burr. 
He  held  out  his  hand  and  pressed  hers  warmly. 

"This  is  terrible,  Patience,"  he  said  ;  "  but  remember 
that  Hal  and  I  are  always  your  friends.  If  the  worst 
comes  to  the  worst  I  '11  send  you  my  attorney.  Re- 
member that,  and  don't  engage  any  one  else,  for  he  's 
one  of  the  ablest  criminal  lawyers  in  the  country." 

"  Oh,  you  are  good  !  "  she  said.  She  smiled  even 
through  the  grateful  tears  which  sprang  to  her  eyes. 
Burr  had  grown  a  visible  inch.  His  chest  and  lips 
were  slightly  extended. 

Mr.  Peele  sat  in  a  large  chair,  his  elbows  on  the 
arms,  his  finger-tips  lightly  pressed  together.  As 
Patience  stood  before  him  she  felt  as  if  transfixed  by 
two  steel  lances. 

"  You  murdered  my  son." 

"I  did  not."  Her  courage  came  back  to  her  under 
the  overt  attack. 

"  You  murdered  my  son.  The  evidence  is  conclusive 
to  me  as  a  lawyer  —  and  to  my  knowledge  of  you. 
My  error  was  that  I  regarded  your  threats  as  fem- 
inine ravings.  I  wish  you  to  leave  my  house  at  once 
—  within  the  hour.  I  shall  not  have  you  arrested,  but 
if  you  are  I  shall  appear  against  you ;  and  I  have  some 
25 


386    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

evidence,  as  you  will  admit.  You  have  dishonoured  an 
ancient  house,"  he  continued  with  cold  passion,  "  and 
you  have  left  it  without  an  heir.  Its  name,  after  nearly 
three  hundred  years  in  this  country  alone,  must  die 
with  me.  If  you  had  borne  a  son  I  should  move 
heaven  and  earth  to  get  you  out  of  the  country,  but  now 
I  hope  to  heaven  you  '11  go  to  the  chair." 

Patience  shuddered  and  chilled,  but  she  answered : 
"  You  despised  your  son,  and  you  should  be  thankful 
that  he  left  no  second  edition  of  himself." 

"  He  was  my  son,  and  the  last  of  his  name.  Now, 
kindly  leave  this  house." 

Patience  went  up  to  her  room  and  began  to  pack 
her  trunk.  Hal  followed,  and  when  she  heard  what 
her  father  had  said  cried  bitterly.  She  helped  Patience 
to  pack,  assisted  her  into  the  black  clothes,  then  walked 
to  the  station  with  her  and  stood  conspicuously  on  the 
platform,  waving  her  hand  as  the  train  moved  off. 


IV 


PATIENCE  went  directly  to  her  old  quarters  in  Forty- 
Fourth  Street.  She  told  the  cabman  not  to  lift  her 
trunk  down  until  she  ascertained  if  there  was  a  vacant 
room  in  the  house.  The  bell  was  answered  by  a  maid 
that  had  been  there  in  her  time.  The  girl  stifled  a 
scream  and  fled.  Patience  shut  the  door  behind  her 
with  a  hand  that  trembled  again,  and  went  slowly  up- 
stairs to  Miss  Merrien's  room.  A  solemn  voice  an- 
swered her  knock.  When  she  opened  the  door  Miss 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    387 

Merrien  sprang  up  and  came  forward.     Her  face  was 
drawn,  her  eyes  were  red. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Peele  !  "  she  cried. 

"  Do  you  believe  it?     If  you  do,  I  '11  go  at  once." 

"Of  course  I  don't  believe  it !  How  can  you  ask 
me  ?  Sit  down.  How  good  of  you  to  come  here.  Tell 
me  —  are  you  terribly  frightened  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  am  now.  Why  should  I  be  ? 
If  I  am  so  unlucky  as  to  have  been  tossed  up  in  the 
news  hat  of  the  '  Eye,'  I  cannot  help  it ;  and  I  suppose 
this  is  only  the  beginning.  If  I  have  to  go  to  jail  I 
have  to,  and  that  is  the  end  of  it ;  but  they  cannot 
possibly  convict  me,  for  I  am  innocent." 

"  Oh,  you  always  were  the  bravest  woman  I  ever 
knew.  It  is  like  you  —  Come." 

The  door  opened,  and  the  landlady  entered  and  closed 
it  carefully  behind  her.  She  was  a  tall  thin  elderly 
woman  with  a  refined  face  stamped  with  commercial 
unquiet.  Her  grey  hair  was  piled  high.  Her  voice 
was  low,  and  well  modulated.  She  looked  at  Patience 
out  of  faded  blue  eyes  in  which  there  was  a  faint  sparkle 
of  resentment. 

"  I  see  that  you  have  a  trunk  on  your  cab,  Mrs. 
Peele,"  she  said,  "I  am  very  sorry  that  I  have  no 
room." 

"  I  had  no  intention  of  asking  you  for  a  room,"  said 
Patience,  haughtily.  "  I  merely  came  to  call  on  Miss 
Merrien ;  and  as  I  have  only  a  few  moments  to  spare,  I 
should  be  obliged  if  you  would  leave  us  alone." 

The  landlady  retired  in  disorder,  and  Miss  Merrien 
exhausted  her  vocabulary  of  invective. 

"What  is  the  use?  "  said  Patience.  «  She  is  right. 
In  the  struggle  for  bread  and  butter  it  must  be  self  first, 


388    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

last,  and  always.  If  it  were  known  —  as  it  would  be  — 
that  I  had  been  arrested  from  her  house  every  other 
lodger  would  leave.  Well,  I  must  go  roof- hunting." 
She  laughed  suddenly.  "  If  I  do  go  to  jail  I  suppose 
you  '11  come  to  interview  me.  I  hope  so.  Good-bye." 

Miss  Merrien,  although  not  a  demonstrative  girl, 
kissed  her  affectionately.  "  The  '  Day '  will  defend  you 
for  all  it 's  worth  —  you  know  that.  And  I  need  n't  say 
anything  about  myself." 

Patience  told  her  cabman  to  drive  to  the  Holland 
House,  but  when  he  stopped  there  she  did  not  get  out. 
Reflection  had  convinced  her  that  no  hotel  in  New 
York  would  take  her  in.  She  dared  not  give  a  false 
name  lest  her  motive  should  be  misconstrued*  She 
put  her  head  out  of  the  window  and  gave  the  man 
Rosita's  address. 

"  There  is  no  other  way,"  she  thought.  "  I  cannot 
live  in  a  cab.  Mrs.  Field  would  take  me  in,  but  I 
have  no  right  to  make  such  a  test  of  friendship  as 
that." 

Rosita  received  her  with  open  arms.  She  was  look- 
ing very  beautiful  in  flowing  nainsook  and  lace,  and  ex- 
haled a  new  and  delicious  perfume. 

"Patita!  Patita  mt'af"  she  purred.  "  Pobrecita! 
Who  would  have  thought  that  this  would  happen  to  my 
Rti"  (Her  accent  was  more  pronounced  than  ever.) 

"  Can  I  stay  with  you  until  they  arrest  me,  or  this 
blows  over?" 

"You  shall  stay  with  me  forever.  *  Are  we  not  bound 
by  the  ties  of  childhood  ? '  That  is  a  line  in  my  new 
opera.  Isn't  it  funny?  Ay,  Patita,  I  am  so  sorry." 
And  she  sent  down  for  the  trunk  and  removed  Pa- 
tience's hat. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    389 


THE  next  morning  Patience  was  awakened  by  Rosita's 
ecstatic  voice.  She  opened  her  eyes  to  see  her  hostess 
standing  at  the  bedside,  the  "  Eye  "  in  her  hand,  her 
face  radiant. 

"  Patita  !  "  she  cried.  "Read  it  —  there  is  a  whole 
column  about  you  and  me." 

Patience  sat  up  in  bed.  "  Is  that  why  you  were  so 
glad  to  have  me  come  here?  "  she  asked. 

"  Patita  !  Do  not  look  at  me  like  that.  Oh,  if  I 
could  only  look  that  way  when  I  am  stage  mad  !  —  but 
they  always  say  I  look  like  an  angry  baby.  Of  course, 
that  was  not  the  reason,  Patita  mia  ;  but  it  is  heavenly 
to  be  written  about ;  do  not  you  think  so  ?  And,  of 
course,  every  new  story  about  me  —  and  such  a  sensa- 
tion as  this  —  means  a  perfect  rush  —  " 

"  Give  me  the  paper,  please." 

She  read  the  column  while  Rosita  pattered  back  to 
her  room  and  ate  her  dainty  breakfast.  Every  move 
she  had  made  on  the  day  before  was  chronicled.  On 
another  page  an  editorial  commented  on  the  facts  of 
her  having  visited  a  young  man's  apartment,  and  finally 
taken  refuge  with  the  notorious  Spanish  woman. 

She  dressed  herself  hastily  in  her  black  garments, 
and  locked  and  strapped  her  trunk.  "  I  '11  go  straight 
down  and  give  myself  up,"  she  thought.  "  It 's  what  I 
ought  to  have  done  yesterday.  It 's  eleven  o'clock.  I 
wish  it  were  nine.  Come." 

"Two  gentlemen  to  see  madame,"  said  the  maid. 

"  What  —  who  —  what  do  they  look  like  ?  " 


390    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Like  policemen,  and  yet  not,  madame." 

Patience  gasped.  Her  knees  gave  way.  Again  she 
experienced  that  horrible  feeling  of  disintegration.  Her 
untasted  breakfast  stood  on  a  table  by  the  bed.  She 
hastily  drank  a  cup  of  black  coffee,  then  walked  steadily 
to  the  drawing-room. 

"You  have  come  for  me?  "  she  asked  of  the  men. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"Where  am  I  to  go?" 

"  To  the  jail  at  White  Plains,  Westchester  County. 
You  are  arrested  on  charge  of  murder;  "  and  he  dis- 
played the  warrant. 

Patience  touched  the  bell  button.  "  Take  my  trunk 
downstairs  to  the  cab,"  she  said  to  the  butler.  Then  she 
stepped  to  the  portieres  and  said  good-bye  to  Rosita. 

"  She  's  a  cool  one,"  said  one  man  to  the  other. 
"She  done  it." 

They  went  down  in  the  elevator.  As  they  left  it, 
one  of  the  men  preceded  her,  the  other  followed  close. 
Both  entered  the  cab  with  her.  She  felt  that  they  were 
regarding  her  with  the  frank  curiosity  of  their  kind, 
and  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  street  with  an  expres- 
sionless stare.  On  the  train  they  gave  her  a  seat  to 
herself,  each  taking  the  outside  of  another,  one  before 
and  one  behind.  The  passengers  did  not  suspect  the 
meaning  of  the  party.  She  saw  no  one  she  knew.  It 
was  not  the  line  that  passed  Peele  Manor.  For  small 
mercies  she  was  duly  thankful.  She  guessed,  however, 
that  a  meagre  wiry  black- eyed  young  man  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  aisle,  a  man  with  a  mean  sharp 
common  face,  was  Bart  Tripp.  He  stared  at  her  until 
she  thought  she  should  scream  aloud,  or,  what  would 
be  almost  as  fatal,  relax  the  proud  calm  of  her  face.  It 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    391 

was  with  a  sigh  of  profound  relief  that  she  stepped 
from  the  train  at  White  Plains. 

"  We  won't  meet  no  one,"  said  one  of  the  detectives, 
as  they  entered  the  hack.  "  The  sheriff 's  got  ready 
for  you,  I  guess ;  he  was  wired  yesterday ;  but  we  took 
good  care  not  to  say  what  train  we  was  coming  on, 
so  there  would  n't  be  no  crowd.  Feeling  's  pretty  high 
against  you,  I  guess." 

As  they  drove  through  the  ugly  little  town,  Patience 
wondered  why  it  was  called  White  Plains.  She  had 
never  seen  a  more  undulating  country.  One  or  two  of 
the  environing  hills  were  almost  perpendicular.  She 
also  noticed  with  the  minute  observance  of  persons  ap- 
proaching crises,  that  the  court  house  was  a  big  hand- 
some building  of  grey  stone,  and  decided  that  she 
liked  its  architecture.  The  extension  behind,  one  of 
the  keepers  told  her,  was  the  jail. 

She  was  escorted  before  a  police  justice,  who  read 
the  charge  and  explained  such  privileges  as  the  law 
allowed  her ;  then  to  the  sheriff's  office,  where  she  was 
registered.  A  crowd  of  men  were  in  the  office.  They 
watched  her  with  deep  but  respectful  attention,  as  she 
answered  the  many  questions  put  to  her,  but  she  man- 
aged to  maintain  her  impassive  demeanour.  There  was 
a  buzz  of  excitement  by  this  time  all  through  the  court 
house,  and  a  little  of  it  began  to  communicate  itself  to 
her.  The  few  that  are  sustained  through  life's  trials 
by  public  interest  are  immeasurably  fortunate.  Before 
the  sheriff —  who  could  not  have  treated  her  with  more 
consideration  were  she  a  dethroned  queen  —  had  fin- 
ished, word  had  gone  up  into  the  court  room,  and  a 
sudden  trampling  on  the  back  stair  indicated  that  the 
case  in  hand  had  lost  its  interest. 


392    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"That's  all,"  said  the  sheriff,  hurriedly.  "Guess 
you  'd  better  get  along.  —  Tarbox,"  he  called. 

A  short  stout  man  with  a  ruddy  kind  face  came 
forward,  offered  Patience  his  arm,  pushed  his  way 
through  the  crowd  of  men  in  the  hall,  and  led  her  out 
of  a  back  door  and  down  a  long  yard  beside  the  jail. 
At  the  end  of  the  building  he  inserted  a  key  in  a  lock. 

"Go  right  up,  ma'am,"  he  said  politely,  and  she  as- 
cended a  narrow  flight  of  stairs.  At  its  head  he  un- 
locked another  door,  and  again  they  ascended,  again 
a  door  was  unlocked.  Then  Patience  stepped  into  a 
long  low  clean  well-lighted  room.  In  the  middle  of 
its  length  was  a  stove  over  which  a  kettle  boiled.  On 
a  bench  sat  four  women.  At  each  end  and  on  one 
side  were  low  grated  windows.  On  the  other  side  were 
a  number  of  grated  doors. 

The  man  led  Patience  to  the  upper  end  of  the  room 
and  swung  open  the  door  of  the  corner  cell.  It  was  a 
large  cell,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  low  window  with 
its  iron  bars  would  have  been  in  no  wise  different  from 
any  room  of  simple  comfort.  A  red  carpet  covered  the 
floor.  The  bed  in  the  corner  was  fresh  and  spotless. 
The  rest  of  the  furniture  was  new  and  convenient. 
There  were  even  a  large  rocker  and  a  student's  lamp. 
Over  the  door  a  curtain  had  been  hung. 

"  Why  !  "  exclaimed  Patience,  "  are  all  prison  cells 
like  this?" 

"  No,  ma'am,  they  're  not ;  but  you  see  when  we 
have  a  lady  —  which  is  n't  often  —  we  do  what  we  can 
to  make  her  feel  at  home.  We  can't  afford  to  forget 
that  this  is  the  swell  county  of  New  York,  you  know. 
And  of  course  you  're  the  finest  person  we  've  ever  had. 
You  '11  be  treated  well  here,  —  you  need  n't  worry  about 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    393 

that.  I  '11  order  one  of  them  girls  outside  to  wait  on 
you." 

"  You  are  very  good."  For  the  first  time  tears 
threatened. 

"  Well,  I  '11  try  to  be  to  you,  ma'am.  I  'm  John 
Tarbox,  deputy  sheriff,  jailor,  warden,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it.  I  shall  look  after  you.  I  '11  call  twice  a  day,  and 
anything  you  want  you  '11  get.  If  any  of  them  hussies 
out  there  get  to  fighting  just  sing  out  the  window,  and 
I  'IHock  them  up." 

"  You  won't  lock  me  in?  " 

"  Oh,  no  —  there  's  no  need  for  that.  This  cell 's  no 
stronger  than  the  whole  place.  Well,  make  yourself 
comfortable.  I  '11  send  over  to  the  hotel  to  get  a  lunch 
for  you.  You  must  be  hungry.  Keep  a  stiff  upper  lip." 

Patience,  when  she  was  alone,  drew  a  long  breath 
and  looked  about  her.  The  cheerful  room,  the  unex- 
pected kindness  of  the  sheriffs,  had  raised  her  spirits. 
She  took  off  her  hat  and  tossed  it  on  the  bed. 

"  I  may  as  well  take  the  situation  humourously,"  she 
thought.  "  It  helps  more  than  anything  else  in  life, 
I  Ve  discovered.  This  can't  last  forever,  and  they 
can't  convict  me.  The  serious  people  of  this  world 
have  always  struck  me  as  being  the  most  farcical.  So 
here  goes  my  ninth  or  tenth  lesson  in  philosophy. 
Such  is  life." 

After  luncheon  Mag,  the  improvised  maid,  unpacked 
the  trunk  and  shook  out  the  pretty  garments  with  many 
expressions  of  rapture.  Patience  gave  her  a  red  frock, 
and  the  girl  was  her  slave  thenceforth. 

The  afternoon  hours  revolved  like  a  clogged  wheel  in 
a  muddy  stream.  Excitement  and  novelty  kept  horror 
at  bay,  but  she  knew  that  it  lurked,  biding  its  time. 


394    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

When  night  came  she  lit  the  lamp  and  tried  to  read 
a  magazine  that  Tarbox  had  brought  her ;  but  it  fell 
from  her  hands  again  and  again.  Her  ears  acted  in- 
dependently of  her  will.  She  had  never  known  so 
terrible  a  stillness.  The  women  had  gone  to  bed  at 
half  past  seven.  No  voice  came  from  the  distant  street. 
The  silence  of  eternity  seemed  to  have  descended  upon 
those  massive  walls. 

She  was  in  jail ! 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  shuddering;  then  set  her 
teeth  and  knelt  by  the  window. 

The  heat  waves  of  August  hid  the  stars.  Beyond  the 
jail -yard  was  a  mass  of  buildings,  but  no  light  in  any 
window.  Now  and  again  a  tramp  came  forth  from  his 
quarters  on  the  ground  floor  and  strolled  about  the  yard, 
smoking  his  pipe ;  but  he  made  no  sound,  and  in  his 
grey  dilapidation  looked  like  a  parodied  ghost.  One 
of  the  women  cursed  loudly  in  her  sleep,  then  collapsed 
into  silence.  An  engine  whistle  shrieked,  hilarious  with 
freedom,  but  the  rattle  of  the  train  was  too  distant  to 
carry  to  straining  ears. 

She  clutched  the  bars  and  shook  them,  then  crouched, 
trembling  and  gasping.  She  dropped  forward,  resting 
her  face  on  her  arms.  Her  fine  courage  retreated,  and 
mocked  her.  She  had  no  wish  to  recall  it.  She  longed 
passionately  for  the  strong  arm  and  the  strong  soul  of 
a  man.  The  independence  and  self-reliance  which 
Circumstance  had  implanted,  seemed  to  fade  out  of 
her;  she  was  woman  symbolised.  No  shipwrecked 
mariner  was  ever  so  desolate ;  for  nothing  in  all  life  is 
so  tragic  as  a  woman  forced  to  stand  and  do  battle 
alone. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    395 

It  was  only  when  she  arose,  shivering  and  exhausted, 
and  groped  her  way  to  bed,  that  it  occurred  to  her  that 
in  those  appalling  moments  she  had  not  thought  of 
Morgan  Steele. 


VI 

IN  the  morning  she  awoke  with  a  start  and  a  chill,  and 
sprang  out  of  bed,  governed  by  an  impulse  to  fling  her- 
self against  the  bars.  But  sleep  had  refreshed  her,  and 
she  sat  down  and  reasoned  herself  into  courage  and 
hope  once  more.  The  tussle  with  the  world  develops 
the  iron  in  a  woman's  blood,  and  Patience's  experi- 
ences of  the  last  year  and  a  half  stood  her  in  good 
stead  now.  When  the  girl  came  in  to  arrange  her 
room  and  Tarbox  brought  her  breakfast,  the  common- 
place details  completed  her  poise.  The  morning  mail 
brought  her  letters  from  Steele  and  Hal. 

DEAR  GIRL  [Steele's  ran],  —  You  are  blue  and  fright- 
ened and  lonesome.  I  wish  I  were  there  to  cheer  you 
up.  But  the  first  day  will  be  the  worst.  Remember  that 
liberty  is  not  far  off.  They  cannot  convict  you.  I  shall 
see  you  a  few  hours  after  you  get  this. 

M.  S. 

Oh,  Patience  dear  [Hal  had  written],  it  has  come !  I 
wish  I  could  tell  you  how  terribly  I  feel.  But  cheer  up,  old 
girl.  It  will  come  out  all  right —  I  know  it  will.  Latimer 
is  hustling  me  out  of  the  country  so  I  cannot  appear  as  a 
witness — he  says  I  would  do  you  more  harm  than  good. 
But  he  will  stay  and  see  you  through.  His  attorney  will 
call  on  you  at  once.  I  send  you  a  box  to  cheer  you  up  a 
little.  Do  write  to  me,  and  always  remember  that  I  am 
your  sister  HAL. 


396    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

The  box  arrived  an  hour  later.  It  contained  her 
silver  toilet-set,  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  a  well- 
groomed  and  pretty  woman,  a  bottle  of  cologne,  a  box 
of  candy,  eight  French  novels,  a  large  box  of  hand- 
some writing  paper,  and  a  bolt  of  black  satin  ribbon. 
Patience  arranged  the  toilet-set  on  the  bureau,  halved 
the  candy  with  the  women,  then  sat  down  with  a  volume 
of  Bourget.  When  Tarbox  came  up  an  hour  later  with 
a  card  she  was  still  reading,  and  quite  herself. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  'm  glad,  I  am,  to  see  you  so 
contented  and  so  cool,"  he  added,  mopping  his  brow. 
"  This  gent  is  below.  He  says  he  's  one  of  the  lawyers 
in  the  case.  I  hoped  you  'd  have  Bourke.  He  's  the 
smartest  man  in  Westchester  County  !  Shall  I  tell  him 
to  come  up,  or  would  you  like  to  see  him  down  in  the 
sheriffs  office?  Anything  to  please  you." 

"  Oh,  here,  by  all  means,  if  he  does  n't  mind  the 
stairs." 

Tarbox  gazed  at  her  admiringly.  "Well,  ma'am,"  he 
ejaculated,  "  you  are  cool,  but  I  for  one  believe  it 's  the 
coolness  of  innocence.  You  never  did  murder  !  "  and 
he  walked  hastily  away  as  if  ashamed  of  his  enthusiasm. 

The  lawyer's  card  bore  the  name  of  Eugene  A. 
Simms.  He  came  up  at  once,  a  short  thick-set  man  of 
thirty,  with  a  square  shrewd  dogged  face,  a  low  brow, 
a  snub  nose,  and  black  brilliant  hard  eyes.  He  came 
in  with  a  bustling  aggressive  business-like  air,  scanning 
Patience  as  if  he  expected  to  find  all  the  points  of  the 
case  written  upon  her.  Patience  conceived  an  imme- 
diate and  violent  dislike  to  him. 

"  Will  you  sit  down  ?  "  she  said  stiffly.  "  You  are  Mr. 
Burr's  lawyer,  I  believe." 

"  Oh,  no.      That 's  Bourke.      He  has  charge  of  the 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    397 

case.  I  'm  getting  it  up.  I  shall  attend  the  coroner's 
inquest  and  get  the  case  in  shape  for  Mr.  Bourke  to 
conduct." 

The  blood  rose  to  Patience's  hair  and  receded  to  her 
heart,  which  changed  its  time;  but  she  asked  no 
questions. 

Simms  leaned  forward  and  fixed  her  with  his  un- 
pleasant eyes.  "  Be  perfectly  frank  with  me,"  he  said, 
abruptly.  "  It 's  best.  We  can't  work  in  the  dark. 
We  '11  pull  you  through ;  that 's  what  we  are  here  for." 

"You  take  it  for  granted  that  I  am  guilty,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"I  'm  bound  to  say  that  all  the  revealed  facts  point 
that  way.  But  of  course  that  makes  no  difference  to 
us.  In  fact,  the  harder  a  case  is  the  better  Bourke 
likes  it  —  " 

"  Does  Mr.  Bourke  believe  that  I  am  guilty?  " 

"  I  have  n't  discussed  it  with  him.  He  merely  called 
me  in,  put  the  facts  in  my  hands,  and  told  me  to  go  to 
work.  I  have  n't  seen  him  since." 

"  I  will  be  perfectly  frank  with  you,"  said  Patience, 
who  had  recovered  herself.  "I  did  not  murder  Mr. 
Peele.  I  am  not  wholly  an  idiot.  If  I  had  wished  to 
poison  him  do  you  suppose  I  would  have  selected  the 
drug  I  was  known  to  administer?" 

"  You  might  have  done  it  in  a  moment  of  passion. 
You  had  had  a  quarrel  with  him  that  night." 

"  So  much  the  more  reason  why  I  would  not  make 
such  a  fatal  mistake.  It  is  quite  true  that  when  in  a 
passion  I  frequently  expressed  the  wish  to  kill  him.  I 
will  also  tell  you  that  one  night  when  dropping  the 
morphine  I  was  seized  with  an  uncontrollable  impulse 
to  give  him  a  double  dose.  I  dropped  twenty-six 


398    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

drops.  But  fortunately  it  takes  some  time  to  do  that, 
and  meanwhile  the  impulse  weakened,  and  I  anathe- 
matised myself  as  a  fool.  No  man  nor  woman  of  re- 
spectable brains  ever  made  a  mistake  like  that." 

"  What  is  your  own  theory?" 

"  I  hardly  believe  that  he  committed  suicide.  I 
think  that  he  was  wild  with  pain,  and  did  not  count  the 
drops.  He  was  probably  half  blind.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  was  capable  of  anything  when  in  a  rage." 

Mr.  Simms  scraped  the  floor  with  his  boot-heels  and 
beat  a  tattoo  on  his  knee  with  his  fingers.  "  Very  well," 
he  said  at  last.  "  We  take  your  word,  of  course.  Now 
tell  me  as  nearly  as  you  can,  every  circumstance  of 
that  night,  and  give  me  a  general  idea  of  your  relations 
with  him  and  your  reasons  for  leaving  him.  It  is  going 
to  be  one  of  the  biggest  fights  this  State  has  ever  seen, 
and  we  want  all  the  help  you  can  give  us." 

After  he  had  gone  Patience  fell  into  a  rage.  Why 
had  not  Bourke  come  himself  instead  of  sending  his 
underling?  If  he  hesitated  to  meet  her  after  the 
abominable  words  he  had  used  that  second  night  at 
Peele  Manor  why  had  he  undertaken  her  case  at  all  ? 
Her  pride  revolted  at  the  thought  of  being  defended 
by  him,  of  owing  her  life  to  him.  Once  she  was  at  the 
point  of  writing  him  a  haughty  note  declining  to  accept 
his  services ;  but  Latimer  Burr's  kindness  deserved  a 
more  gracious  acknowledgment.  Again,  she  took  up 
her  pen  to  inform  him  that  unless  he  apologised  he 
must  understand  that  she  could  have  no  relations  with 
him ;  but  her  lively  fear  of  making  herself  ridiculous 
came  to  the  rescue,  and  she  threw  the  pen  aside.  She 
resumed  her  novel,  but  it  had  lost  its  flavour.  Bourke's 
face  was  on  every  page.  The  interview  in  the  elm  walk 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    399 

wrote  itself  between  the  French  lines;  and  the  subse- 
quent conversation  in  the  library  danced  in  letters  of 
red.  She  hated  Bourke  the  more  bitterly  because  he 
had  once  been  something  more  to  her  than  any  other 
man  had  been.  She  worked  herself  into  such  a  bad 
humour  that  she  almost  snubbed  Miss  Merrien  and  a 
"Day"  artist  who  came  to  interview  and  sketch  her; 
and  when  Morgan  Steele  arrived,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
she  was  as  perverse  and  unreasonable  as  if  the  widowed 
chatelaine  of  Peele  Manor  with  the  world  at  her  feet. 
He  understood  her  mood  perfectly,  although  not  the 
cause  of  it,  and  guyed  her  into  good  humour  and  her 
native  sense  of  the  ridiculous. 

"Oh,  I  do  like  you,"  she  said.  "You  understand 
me  so.  Any  other  man  would  go  off  in  a  huff.  And  I 
won't  always  be  like  this.  I  suppose  I  am  nervous  and 
upset  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Who  would  n't  be  ?  And 
you  know  I  am  tremendously  fond  of  you." 

"  I  know  you  are,"  he  said  dryly.  "  As  you  will  have 
ample  time  for  reflection  and  meditation  in  the  next 
few  months,  you  will  find  out  just  how  fond.  But  I  am 
more  glad  than  I  can  say  to  find  you  in  this  mood.  It 
is  as  healthy  as  irritability  in  illness.  I  am  even  willing 
to  be  sacrificed." 

Patience  put  out  her  hand  and  patted  his  soft  hair 
with  a  spasm  of  genuine  affection.  "You  are  the 
dearest  boy  in  the  world,"  she  said,  "  and  I  do  love  you. 
For  all  your  uncanny  wisdom  and  cold-blooded  philos- 
ophy you  are  just  a  big  lovable  good-natured  boy." 

"  Just  the  kind  of  fellow  a  woman  would  like  to  have 
for  a  brother,  in  short." 

"  No  !  No  !  I  think  it  will  be  the  most  charming 
thing  in  the  world  to  be  married  to  you.  You  are 


400    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

such  a  compound.  You  will  interest  me  forever.  Most 
people  are  such  bores  after  a  little." 

"  If  you  had  n't  started  out  in  life  with  ideas  upside- 
down,  you  would  really  love  me  in  loving  me  no  more 
than  you  do  now.  But  ideals  and  the  fixed  idea  have 
got  to  be -worked  out  to  the  bitter  end,  as  you  are  fond 
of  remarking.  In  reality,  happiness  means  a  comfort- 
able state  of  affairs  between  a  man  and  a  woman  with 
plenty  of  brains,  philosophy,  and  passion,  who  are 
wholly  congenial  in  these  three  matters,  and  have 
chucked  their  illusions  overboard.  However,  we  won't 
discuss  the  matter  any  further  at  present.  How  do 
you  like  being  the  sensation  of  the  day?" 

"Ami?" 

"Are  you?  Every  newspaper  in  town  had  a  big 
story  this  morning,  and  of  course  the  news  has  gone 
all  over  the  country.  Nothing  else  is  to  be  heard  in 
the  trains  or  in  Park  Row.  Oh,  you  will  have  plenty 
to  sustain  you.  Lots  of  women  would  give  their  heads 
to  be  in  your  place." 

He  dined  with  her  and  remained  until  eight  o'clock. 
After  he  had  gone,  Patience  sat  for  some  time  lost  in 
a  pleasurable  reverie.  He  always  left  her  in  a  good 
humour,  and  she  unquestionably  loved  him.  Few 
women  could  help  loving  Morgan  Steele.  She  sighed 
once  as  she  reflected  that  love  was  not  the  tremendous 
passion  she  had  once  imagined  it  to  be ;  in  all  her 
dreams  she  had  never  pictured  it  as  a  restful  and 
tranquillising  element ;  but  she  conceded  that  Steele's 
philosophy  was  correct. 

And  if  he  did  not  inspire  her  with  a  mightier  passion 
it  was  her  fault,  not  his.  Miss  Merrien  had  told  her  of 
one  brilliant  newspaper  woman  who  had  made  a  wilful 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    401 

idiot  of  herself  on  his  behalf,  and  of  a  popular  and 
gifted  actress  who  at  one  time  had  taken  to  haunting 
the  "  Day  "  office,  much  to  the  enjoyment  of  his  fellow 
editors  and  to  his  own  futile  wrath. 

"  No,"  she  thought,  "  I  made  a  mistake  once,  and 
the  shock  was  so  great  that  it  either  benumbed  or 
stunted  me ;  or  else  the  imaginary  me  was  killed  and 
the  real  developed.  And  after  such  a  marriage  I  doubt 
if  there  are  depths  or  heights  left  in  one's  nature." 

Then  her  mind  drifted  to  her  predicament,  and  she 
wondered  that  the  workings  of  fear  had  so  wholly 
ceased.  "  I  suppose  it  is  because  that  man  is  going  to 
defend  me,"  she  said,  ruthlessly,  at  last.  "They  say 
he  could  save  a  man  that  had  been  caught  driving  a 
knife  into  another  man's  heart  with  a  hammer ;  so  it  is 
quite  natural  that  I  should  feel  safe." 


VII 

THE  next  day  a  box  of  books  and  periodicals  arrived 
from  Steele.  Rosita  thoughtfully  subscribed  to  a  clip- 
ping bureau,  and  sent  Patience  daily  a  heavy  package  of 
"  stories,"  editorials,  and  telegrams  of  which  she  was  the 
heroine.  Patience  became  so  bewildered  over  the  con- 
tradictory descriptions  of  her  personal  appearance,  the 
various  versions  of  her  marital  drama,  the  hundred  and 
one  theories  for  the  murder  and  defence,  the  ingenious 
analyses  of  her  character,  and  the  conflicting  informa- 
tion regarding  her  girlhood,  that  she  wondered  some- 
times if  a  person  could  come  forth  from  the  hands  of 
so  many  creators  and  retain  any  original  birthmarks. 
26 


402    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

The  "  Eye  "  telegraphed  to  its  correspondent  in  San 
Francisco  to  investigate  her  childhood,  and  the  corre- 
spondent evidently  interviewed  all  her  old  enemies. 
Her  mother's  happy  career  was  detailed  with  glee,  and 
her  own  "  sulky,  moody,  eccentric,  murderous  propen- 
sities "  were  brilliantly  epitomised.  The  story  was  en- 
titled "She  Tried  To  Murder  Her  Mother,"  and  the 
"Eye's"  perfervid  joy  at  this  discovery  throbbed  in  an 
editorial. 

The  story  was  copied  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
United  States;  but  it  is  only  fair  to  add  that  Mr. 
Field's  eloquent  leaders  in  her  defence  were  as  widely 
quoted. 

Miss  Beale  came  to  see  her  at  once,  and  after  a  few 
tears  and  an  emphatic  warning  that  "  this  terrible  ordeal 
was  the  logical  punishment  of  her  blasphemy  of  and 
disrespect  to  the  Lord,"  announced  her  intention  to  sit 
by  her  during  the  trial,  and  let  the  jury  see  what  a 
president  of  the  W.  C.  T.  U.  thought  of  a  prisoner  whose 
life  was  in  their  hands.  Patience  told  her  that  she 
loved  her,  and  indeed  was  deeply  grateful. 

She  spent  her  mornings  reading  the  newspapers  and 
attending  to  her  correspondence.  Tarbox  always  paid 
her  a  short  call,  and  usually  discoursed  of  Garan  Bourke, 
whom  he  admired  extravagantly.  For  a  half  hour  be- 
fore luncheon  she  permitted  her  fellow  prisoners  to  sit 
before  her  in  a  wondering  semi-circle  while  she  mani- 
cured her  nails  and  drew  vivid  word-pictures  of  the 
superior  comforts  incident  upon  the  resignation  of  alco- 
hol. With  the  exception  of  Mag  they  were  weather- 
beaten  creatures,  with  hollow  eyes  and  weak  pathetic 
mouths.  They  admired  Patience  superlatively.  She 
was  touched  by  their  devotion,  and  occasionally  read 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    403 

them  the  funny  stories  in  the  illustrated  weeklies. 
They  listened  with  open  mouth  and  voiceless  laughter, 
which,  however,  expressed  itself  vocally  when  the  stories 
were  told  in  Irish  or  German  dialect.  Patience  gave 
them  the  papers,  and  they  pasted  the  pictures  on  the 
walls  of  the  corridor.  Never  before  had  the  female 
ward  of  the  White  Plains  Jail  presented  so  festive  an 
appearance.  When  the  W.  C.  T.  U.  ladies  came  to  sing 
to  the  prisoners  they  were  inclined  to  be  horrified ; 
but  Patience  assured  them  that  love  of  art,  however 
manifested,  was  a  hopeful  sign. 

She  was  very  comfortable.  She  had  saved  a  thou- 
sand dollars,  —  to  be  exact,  Miss  Merrien  had  saved 
them  for  her,  —  and  she  could  command  all  the  small' 
luxuries  of  prison  life.  The  ugly  walls  of  her  cell  had 
been  draped  with  red  cloth,  and  a  low  bookcase  was 
rapidly  filling  with  the  literature  of  the  moment.  She 
would  never  have  consented  to  save  those  thousand 
dollars  had  not  Miss  Merrien  represented  that  by  judi- 
cious economy  she  could  manage  to  spend  every  third 
year  abroad.  They  did  her  good  service  now ;  she 
could  accept  great  favours,  but  not  small  ones.  Grace- 
ful tributes  were  to  be  expected  by  every  charming 
woman ;  but  if  she  had  been  dependent  upon  friends 
for  the  small  comforts  of  her  daily  life  she  would  have 
gone  without  them. 

The  W's  and  Y's  of  Maria ville  forgave  her,  and 
brought  her  flowers,  tracts,  and  spiritual  admonitions. 
She  received  the  former  with  gratitude  and  the  latter 
with  grace.  Miss  Merrien  came  as  often  as  her  duties 
permitted,  and  so  did  all  the  other  newspaper  women 
she  had  ever  known  or  heard  of.  She  was  interviewed 
for  nearly  every  newspaper  in  the  Union,  and  in  most 


404    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

cases  treated  with  sensational  kindness.  Many  strangers 
and  a  few  old  friends  called. 

Steele  came  regularly  once  a  week.  He  dared  not 
come  oftener.  The  "  lover  in  the  case "  was  still  a 
mystery,  and  it  was  as  well  that  he  should  remain  so. 
Five  other  newspaper  men  lived  in  his  house  ;  therefore 
Patience's  visit  had  told  Bart  Tripp  nothing  beyond  the 
fact  that  she  had  indubitably  called  on  a  young  man 
at  his  apartments  at  a  quarter  past  nine  in  the  morning. 

But  despite  the  fact  that  much  of  her  time  was 
occupied  Patience  grew  very  restless  and  nervous, 
after  the  novelty  wore  off.  She  spent  hours  pacing  up 
and  down  the  corridor,  and  every  evening  after  dark 
Tarbox  took  her  out  in  the  jail-yard  for  a  walk ;  but 
she  had  been  used  to  long  walks  and  hours  in  the  open 
air  all  her  life,  and  no  woman  ever  lived  less  suited  to 
routine  and  restraint  of  any  sort.  Fear  did  not  return, 
although  the  coroner's  jury  had  pronounced  her  guilty 
and  she  had  been  indicted  by  the  Grand  Jury. 


VIII 

WHEN  the  dark  days  of  winter  came  little  light 
struggled  through  the  low  grating,  and  she  was  obliged 
to  keep  her  lamp  burning  most  of  the  time.  Steele 
sent  her  one  with  a  rose-coloured  shade  which  shed  a 
cheerful  light  but  hurt  her  eyes.  When  the  storms 
began  visitors  came  infrequently.  Moreover,  as  public 
interest  cannot  be  kept  at  concert  pitch  for  any  length 
of  time,  there  was  less  and  less  about  her  in  the  news- 
papers. Steele,  who  understood  the  intimate  relation- 
ship between  public  interest  and  the  resignation  of  a 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    405 

prisoner,  assured  her  that  when  her  trial  came  off  in 
March  she  would  once  more  be  the  popular  news  of 
the  day. 

At  first  the  monotony  of  the  long  silent  winter  days 
was  intolerable.  But  gradually,  by  such  short  degrees, 
that  she  hardly  realised  the  change  taking  place  within, 
her,  she  grew  to  love  her  solitude  and  to  be  grateful 
for  it.  For  the  first  time  since  she  had  left  Monterey 
her  hours  were  absolutely  her  own.  She  had  longed 
for  the  solitude  of  a  forested  mountain  top.  From  her 
prison  window  she  could  see  the  naked  tops  of  a  clump 
of  trees  above  the  buildings  opposite,  and  even  her 
obedient  imagination  could  not  expand  them  to  prime- 
val heights ;  but  at  least  she  had  solitude  and  not  a 
petty  detail  to  annoy  her. 

She  sometimes  wondered  if  it  mattered  where  one 
spent  the  few  years  of  this  unsatisfactory  life.  Nothing 
was  of  permanent  satisfaction.  Strongly  as  she  had 
been  infatuated  with  newspaper  work  the  interest  would 
have  lasted  only  just  so  long.  She  found  her  modernity 
slipping  from  her,  herself  relapsing  into  the  dreaming 
child  of  the  tower  with  vague  desire  for  something  her 
varied  experience  of  the  world  had  not  helped  her  to 
find.  Inevitably  she  came  to  know  herself  and  the 
large  demands  of  her  nature,  and  as  inevitably  she  said 
to  Morgan  Steele  one  day,  — 

"  I  think  you  have  known  all  along  that  it  was  a 
mistake." 

"Yes,"  he  said,"  I  have  known  it." 

"  You  have  everything  —  everything,  —  good  looks 
and  distinction,  brains  and  modernity,  magnetism  of  a 
queer  cold  sort,  knowledge  of  women  and  kindness  of 
heart  —  I  cannot  understand.  But  the  spark,  the  re- 


406    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

sponse,  the  exaltation  is  not  there,  —  the  splendid  rush 
of  emotion.  I  love  you,  but  not  in  the  way  that  makes 
matrimony  marriage." 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  peculiar  smile,  an  expan- 
sion of  one  corner  of  his  mouth  which  gave  him  some- 
thing of  the  expression  of  a  satyr.  "  You  were  badly  in 
need  of  a  companion,  and  you  found  one  in  me.  You 
wanted  to  be  understood,  and  I  understood  you.  You 
wanted  sympathy,  and  I  sympathised  with  you ;  but  I 
am  not  the  man,  and  I  have  never  for  one  moment 
deluded  myself." 

"  Then  why  would  you  have  allowed  me  to  drift  into 
matrimony  with  you  ?  —  as  I  should  have  done  if  I  had 
not  come  here." 

"  Because  the  experiment  would  have  been  no  more 
dangerous  than  most  matrimonial  experiments.  And 
it  would  have  been  very  delightful  for  a  time." 

"  I  should  have  loved  you  a  good  deal,"  she  said 
musingly,  "  and  habit  is  a  tremendous  force.  And  1 
should  never  have  permitted  myself  to  recognise  a 
mistake  again  —  if  the  decisive  step  had  been  taken. 
Tell  me —  "  she  added  abruptly,  "do  you  believe  that 
if  I  had  married  you  that  you  would  always  have  loved 
me?" 

"  I  certainly  should  never  have  been  so  unwise  as  to 
promise  to,  for  that  is  something  no  man  can  foretell. 
The  chances  are  that  I  should  not.  All  phases  of  feel- 
ing are  temporary,  —  all  emotions,  all  desires,  all  fulfil- 
ment. Life  itself  is  temporary." 

"  Should  you  have  been  true  to  me  ?  " 

"  O-h— h,  how  in  thunder  can  a  man  answer  a 
question  like  that  ?  That  is  something  he  never  knows 
till  the  time  comes.  If  he  is  sensible  he  wastes  no 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    407 

time  making  resolutions,  and  if  he  is  honest  he  makes 
no  promises." 

"  You  do  not  love  me,"  she  exclaimed  triumphantly. 

"  I  am  merely  more  honest,  perhaps  more  analytical 
than  most  men,  —  that  is  all.  The  man  who  swears 
he  will  love  forever  the  woman  that  pleases  him  most 
is  simply  talking  from  the  depths  of  ignorance  straight 
up  through  his  hat.  No  man  knows  anything  —  what 
he  will  do  or  feel  to-morrow.  He  knows  nothing  of 
himself  until  his  time  comes  to  die,  and  then  he  knows 
blamed  little." 

Patience  shook  her  head.  "  I  don't  know.  You 
may  be  right  in  the  analysis,  but  I  think  you  lose  a 
good  deal.  Love  may  be  a  species  of  insanity,  but  the 
man  whose  brain  is  crystal  is  not  to  be  envied  by  the 
man  whose  brain  can  scorch  reason  and  thought  at 
times.  You  may  save  yourself  heartbreak,  but  you 
miss  heaven.  If  you  are  a  type  of  the  future,  woman 
will  change  too.  Man  has  been  at  woman's  feet 
throughout  the  centuries.  You  and  your  kind  will 
place  her  on  an  exact  level  with  yourselves  and  teach  her 
that  love  means  a  comfortable  coupling  of  personalities. 
Something  primitive  has  gone  out  of  you.  You  have 
every  ingredient  in  your  make-up  except  love.  Liking 
and  passion  don't  make  love.  When  it  fades  out  of  man 
altogether  chivalry  and  homage  will  go  with  it.  You 
would  do  a  great  deal  for  me,  but  you  are  incapable  of 
any  splendid  self-sacrifice.  You  are  entirely  selfish, 
although  in  the  most  charming  way." 

"You  are  quite  right,"  he  said  smiling,  "I  have  not 
much  love  in  me ;  just  enough  to  make  life  a  comfort- 
able and  pleasant  sojourn,  but  not  enough  to  induce  a 
regret  were  I  obliged  to  toss  it  over  to-morrow  —  " 


408    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Nor  to  make  it  a  life  of  bitter  misery  did  I  leave 
it." 

"  No  —  to  be  perfectly  frank  I  should  not  be  bitterly 
miserable.  I  should  regret  —  but  I  should  work  and 
readjust  myself.  I  have  never  yet  given  a  glance  to  the 
past.  I  give  few  to  the  future.  No  man  gets  more  out 
of  the  present  —  " 

"  I  won't  be  loved  like  that,"  said  Patience,  passion- 
ately. 

He  leaned  forward  and  took  her  hand,  patting  it 
gently.  "  You  have  depths  and  heights  in  your  nature 
which  I  fully  appreciate  but  which  I  could  never  stir 
nor  satisfy,"  he  said.  "  Some  man  will.  It  won't  be 
all  that  you  expect  —  you  have  too  much  imagination 
—  but  you  will  have  your  day.  With  your  nature  that 
is  inevitable.  I  am  sorry  to  give  you  up.  You  are  the 
most  delightful  woman  I  shall  ever  know.  And  if  you 
had  married  me  things  would  probably  have  gone  along 
satisfactorily  enough.  I  should  have  kept  your  mind 
occupied  and  talked  to  you  about  yourself — those  are 
the  secrets  of  success  in  matrimony." 

"  Marriage  with  you  would  be  like  playing  at  matri- 
mony. I  want  a  home  and  husband  and  children. 
I  have  seen  enough  to  know  that  unless  one  is  a  fanatic 
like  Miss  Tremont  or  Miss  Beale,  or  the  temporary 
result  of  a  new  and  forced  civilisation  like  Hal,  or  a 
mercenary  wanton  like  Rosita — in  short,  if  one  is 
woman  par  excellence,  and  most  of  us,  clever  or  other- 
wise, even  gifted,  usually  are,  nothing  else  is  worth  the 
toil  and  perplexity  of  being  alive.  But  you  mustn't 
leave  me,"  she  added  hurriedly;  "  I  can't  stand  it  here 
if  you  don't  come  to  see  me." 

"  I  shall  come  exactly  as  I  have  done.    Why   not  ? 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    409 

Our  love-making  has  barely  progressed  beyond  friend- 
ship :  we  shall  hardly  recognise  any  change.  I  should 
feel  lost  if  I  could  not  have  a  talk  with  you  once  in  a 
while.  I  intend  to  have  that  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 
It  isn't  usually  the  man  that  proposes  the  brother 
racket,  but  I  merely  define  the  basis  upon  which  we 
have  really  stood  all  along." 

After  he  had  gone  Patience  drew  a  long  sigh  of 
relief.  The  first  terrible  mistake  of  her  life  was  buried 
with  Beverly  Peele.  A  second  had  been  averted. 
Something  seemed  rebuilding  within  her :  the  unde- 
flected  continuation  of  the  little  girl  in  the  tower. 
For  the  first  time  she  understood  herself  as  absolutely 
as  mortal  can ;  and  she  paid  a  tribute  to  the  zigzag  of 
life  which  had  helped  her  to  that  final  understanding. 


IX 


ON  the  third  of  February  she  received  a  letter,  the 
handwriting  of  whose  address  made  her  change  colour : 
she  had  seen  it  once  on  Mrs.  Peek's  desk.  It  was  the 
first  communication  of  any  sort  that  she  had  received 
from  the  man  who  was  to  defend  her  life.  She  opened 
the  letter  with  angry  curiosity. 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  PEELE,  [it  read],  — You  will  pardon  me 
I  am  sure  for  not  having  called  before  this  when  I  tell  you 
that  I  have  had  a  rush  of  civil  cases  which  have  hardly 
given  me  time  for  sleep  and  have  kept  me  constantly  in 
New  York.  And  of  course  you  have  understood  that  there 
was  really  nothing  I  could  do  until  my  able  confederate, 


410    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Mr.  Simms,  had  gathered  in  and  digested  all  the  facts  in 
the  case.  Now,  however,  I  am  free,  and  the  time  has  come 
when  I  shall  be  obliged  to  see  you  twice  a  week  until  the 
first  of  March.  I  have  worked  the  harder  in  order  to  be 
at  liberty  to  devote  myself  wholly  to  your  case.  Need  I 
add  how  absolute  that  devotion  will  be,  my  dear  Mrs.  Peele, 
or  how  entirely  every  resource  I  possess  shall  be  at  your 
service  ? 

At  two  o'clock  on  Monday  I  shall  be  in  the  sheriffs 
private  office  with  Mr.  Simms  and  my  assistant,  Mr.  Lans- 
ing. Will  you  kindly  meet  us  there  ? 

With  highest  regard,  I  am,  dear  Mrs.  Peele, 
Yours  faithfully, 

GARAN  BOURKE. 

Patience  read  this  carefully  worded  epistle  twice, 
then  laughed  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  am  glad  he  has  declared  himself,"  she  thought. 
"  Of  course  I  should  have  ignored  the  past,  but  it  is  a 
relief  to  think  that  there  will  be  no  awkwardness." 


X 


ON  Monday  at  two  o'clock  Tarbox  came  up  to  her 
cell  to  escort  her  down  to  the  sheriffs  office. 

"  Bourke  's  there,  and  I  never  saw  him  looking  better," 
he  said,  rubbing  his  hands.  "  Oh,  he  '11  pull  you  through. 
Don't  you  worry." 

Patience  was  very  nervous,  but  her  years  of  self- 
repression  and  her  experience  at  Peele  Manor  had 
forged  a  key  with  which  she  could  at  times  lock  nerve 
and  muscle  into  subjection.  As  she  entered  the  sheriffs 
office  she  smiled  upon  Mr.  Bourke  as  graciously  as  any 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    411 

young  and  beautiful  woman  would  be  expected  to  smile 
upon  a  great  lawyer  enlisted  in  her  service. 

Bourke  came  forward  with  the  same  ballast,  although 
the  red  was  in  his  face. 

"  It  was  better  for  you  to  come  down  here,"  he  said. 
"  There  could  be  no  privacy  in  your  cell,  and  we  must 
have  absolute  privacy  for  these  meetings.  Of  course 
you  know  that  we  are  going  to  rehearse  you.  Mrs. 
Peele,  this  is  my  assistant,  Mr.  Lansing."  He  indicated 
a  good-looking  well-dressed  young  fellow,  with  boyish 
blue  eyes  and  a  tilted  nose.  She  liked  him  at  once 
and  gave  him  her  hand.  Mr.  Simms  had  risen  as  she 
entered,  and  they  had  nodded  distantly. 

"  Take  this  chair,  Mrs.  Peele,"  continued  Bourke. 
"  Yes.  This  is  the  first  of  many  rehearsals.  We  shall 
keep  them  up  until  the  trial.  You  will  imagine  yourself 
on  the  witness  stand.  Mr.  Simms,  whom,  fortunately, 
you  don't  like,  is  the  district  attorney,  Lansing  is  the 
judge,  I  am  the  counsel  for  the  defence.  I  shall 
make  the  direct  examination,  and  then  Mr.  Simms  will 
cross-examine  you  with  all  the  subtlety,  the  venom,  and 
the  irritating  minutiae  of  a  district  attorney  determined 
to  make  himself  immortal.  I  think  we  have  outlined 
with  reasonable  completeness  all  that  will  or  can  be 
asked  you,  so  that  you  can  hardly  be  taken  off  your 
guard :  you  must  be  prepared  to  give  direct  answers 
without  suspicious  promptness,  and  avoid  saying  any- 
thing that  could  be  misconstrued." 

"  Must  I  go  on  the  stand?  "  asked  Patience,  fearfully. 
"  I  thought  one  was  not  obliged  to,  and  I  shall  be  so 
nervous." 

Bourke  shook  his  head  emphatically.  "  The  judge 
might  reiterate  a  hundred  times  to  the  jury  that  your 


412    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

failure  to  go  on  the  witness  stand  should  not  be  counted 
against  you,  and  still  it  would  count  —  more  than  any- 
thing. It  is  something  a  jury  never  overlooks.  These 
rehearsals  are  to  keep  you  from  being  nervous,  as  much 
as  anything  else." 

"Do  you  believe  I  am  innocent?"  asked  Patience, 
giving  way  to  an  uncontrollable  impulse. 

"  I  do  —  both  personally  and  professionally." 

Simms  laughed.  "  Bourke  is  so  enthusiastic,"  he 
said,  "  that  if  he  had  made  up  his  professional  mind  that 
you  were  innocent,  the  personal  would  follow  suit." 

"  No,  but  I  do,"  said  Bourke,  laughing,  and  looking 
at  Patience  with  eyes  which  for  the  moment  were  more 
kind  than  keen.  "  Now,  here  goes." 

When  the  two  hours'  rehearsal  were  over  she  was 
very  pale.  "  I  did  not  know  the  case  could  look  so 
black,"  she  said. 

"  It  is  a  black  case,"  said  Simms. 

"Do  you  really  take  so  much  interest?"  she  asked 
Bourke,  curiously.  "  You  make  me  feel  as  if  the  issue 
were  yours  and  not  mine.  Or  is  that  only  your  pro- 
fessional pride  ?  " 

•'  Bourke  is  the  most  ambitious  man  at  the  New  York 
bar,"  said  Simms. 

"  And  the  most  human,"  added  Lansing. 

Patience  smiled  at  the  young  man  and  turned  to 
Bourke,  whose  eyes  were  twinkling.  "  I  take  a  very 
deep  personal  interest  in  your  case,"  he  said  gal- 
lantly. 

"  Bourke  is  an  Irishman,"  said  Simms,  with  sarcasm. 

"  We  '11  excuse  you,"  said  Bourke.  "  You  know  you 
have  business  with  Sturges,"  and  Simms  gathered  up 
his  papers  and  retired,  followed  by  Lansing.  As  the 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times   413 

door  closed  Bourke's  face  changed.  He  became  seri- 
ous at  once. 

"Mrs.  Peele,"  he  said,  "it  would  be  foolish  and 
unkind  to  conceal  from  you  the  fact  that  you  are  in  a 
very  grave  position.  I  have  never  known  a  more  dam- 
aging chain  of  circumstantial  evidence.  The  only  jury 
we  can  possibly  get  together,  the  only  men  in  West- 
chester  County  who  will  know  nothing  about  the  case, 
will  be  farmers  and  small  tradespeople.  These  men 
are  narrow  minded,  unworldly,  religious,  bigoted  people 
who  will  look  with  horror  upon  a  woman  accused  of 
murder;  who  will  be  surlily  prejudiced  against  you 
because  you  did  not  love  your  husband,  and  because 
you  left  him ;  and  above  all  they  are  likely  to  think  you 
should  be  executed  if  for  no  other  reason  than  because," 
—  He  hesitated.  The  blood  came  into  his  face. 
"Tell  me,  is  it  true?  I  don't  believe  it.  I  can't 
believe  it  —  " 

"  That  I  had  a  lover  ?  No,  I  did  not  have  a  lover. 
If  that  spy  reports  exactly  what  he  heard,  he  must  him- 
self prove  that  I  did  not.  I  liked — I  do  like  —  a 
man,  a  former  editor  of  mine,  immensely.  At  that 
time  I  believed  myself  in  love  with  him ;  but  I  was  as 
mistaken  as  I  suppose  all  impulsive  and  mentally  lonely 
people  are  once  or  oftener  in  their  lifetimes.  Although 
he  visits  me  now  we  have  come  to  a  complete  under- 
standing. I  shall  not  marry  him." 

Bourke  looked  at  the  floor  for  a  moment.  "  Yes," 
he  said  finally.  "  Yes.  That  is  a  great  point,  of  course. 
Well  —  as  a  rule  I  can  do  anything  I  like  with  a  jury 
in  Westchester  County ;  I  know  and  have  known  for 
twenty  years  almost  every  man  within  forty  miles ;  but 
we  shall  have  to  go  out  into  the  highways  and  byways 


414    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

for  talesmen :  your  case  has  attracted  almost  univer- 
sal attention.  It  is  just  possible,  therefore,  that  the 
jury  may  convict  you  —  Don't  be  frightened  —  Don't 
look  like  that  —  please  !  —  If  that  happens  I  shall  take 
the  case  to  the  General  Term,  and  failing  that,  to  the 
Court  of  Appeals.  One  way  or  another  I  shall  get 
you  off — I  pledge  you  my  life  on  that,"  he  added 
vehemently.  "  Will  you  put  your  faith  in  me  and  keep 
up?" 

"  I  am  sure  no  woman  could  help  it,"  said  Patience, 
smiling  graciously. 

That  night,  somewhat  to  her  amusement,  she  thought 
on  Bourke  with  a  certain  sweet  tremor  until  she  fell 
asleep.  She  did  not  yet  love  him,  but  he  satisfied  her 
imagination ;  and  he  was  the  first  man  that  ever  had. 


XI 


PATIENCE  was  rehearsed  eight  or  ten  times,  Mr.  Simms 
cross-examining  by  a  different  method  upon  each  occa- 
sion, racking  his  brain  for  new  points  with  which  to 
confound  her.  She  began  to  feel  quite  at  ease  on  the 
witness  stand,  and  equal  to  the  coming  tilt  with  the 
district  attorney.  Aside  from  a  natural  nervousness 
she  felt  no  fear  of  the  approaching  crisis,  rather  an 
excited  interest.  The  papers  were  booming  her  again, 
and  she  would  have  been  less  than  American  had  she 
not  appreciated  her  position  as  heroine  of  the  most 
sensational  drama  of  the  day. 

In  the  last  week  of  February,  however,  she  received 
infonnation  which   induced  her  first  misgiving:    Miss 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    415 

Beale  was  down  with  pneumonia.  That  superlatively 
healthy  person  loved  fresh  air  only  less  than  she  loved 
the  Lord,  and  slept  with  her  windows  open  in  mid-winter. 
Despite  habit  she  invariably  caught  cold  when  travelling, 
as  the  one  window  of  a  small  sleeping-room  was  likely 
to  be  at  the  head  of  her  bed.  She  had  defied  Nature 
once  too  often. 

When  Patience  told  Mr.  Bourke  of  Miss  Beale's  ill- 
ness, the  red  streaked  his  face,  as  it  had  a  habit  of 
doing  when  he  was  disturbed.  They  were  alone  in  the 
office. 

"Will  it  make  much  difference?"  she  asked  anx- 
iously. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  hope  not ;  only  she  would  have  been  a 
great  card.  She  is  known  and  respected  throughout 
the  county,  and  I  should  have  dinned  her  in  the  ears 
of  the  jury.  But  you  should  have  some  woman  with 
you.  Is  there  no  one  else?  " 

Patience  shook  her  head.  "  No  one  that  would  be 
of  use.  I  have  few  women  friends.  Women  don't  like 
me  much,  I  think.  Mrs.  Burr  was  my  most  intimate 
friend,  but  her  husband  naturally  wanted  to  keep  her 
out  of  the  affair,  and  sent  her  off  to  Europe." 

"  It  is  odd.  I  cannot  think  of  you  as  friendless.  You 
attract  and  antagonise  more  strongly  than  any  one  I 
ever  saw." 

He  was  staring  hard  at  her,  and  she  turned  her  head 
away,  colouring  slightly.  It  was  the  first  time  they  had 
been  alone  since  the  initial  rehearsal,  although  he  and 
the  other  lawyers  had  often  lingered,  after  business  was 
over,  to  talk  with  her.  Apparently  she  and  he  were 
the  best  of  friends,  and  their  former  acquaintance  had 
not  been  recognised  by  a  glance. 


4i  6    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  I  wonder  if  we  really  are  friends,"  he  said  abruptly, 
then  shook  his  shoulders  slightly,  as  if,  having  made 
the  plunge,  he  would  not  retreat. 

Patience  beat  her  fingers  lightly  on  the  desk,  but  did 
not  turn  her  face  to  him. 

"Our  relationship  is  very  agreeable,"  she  said  coolly. 
"  I  am  delighted  that  Mr.  Simms,  for  instance,  is  not 
my  counsel." 

There  was  a  moment's  suggestive  silence,  and  then 
he  said  :  "  I  understand.  I  can  be  nothing  but  counsel 
to  you  until  I  apologise.  I  have  not  done  so  before 
because  there  is  no  excuse  to  offer.  I  can  only  explain  : 
you  had  deceived  and  outwitted  and  made  a  fool  of 
me,  and  I  was  furious.  Moreover,  I  was  horribly  dis- 
appointed. I  am  perfectly  well  aware  that  all  that  is 
no  excuse.  I  was  bitterly  ashamed  afterwards,  and  far 
more  furious  with  myself  than  I  had  been  with  you.  I 
have  never  ceased  to  deplore  it.  We  might  at  least 
have  been  friends  —  " 

"Ah,  you  forgave  me  then?  "  asked  Patience,  looking 
at  his  flushed  face  with  a  smile.  He  had  never  looked 
more  awkward  nor  more  attractive. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  my  offence  was  so  much  worse,  you  see, 
I  had  to." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  giving  him  her  hand  gracefully,  "  we 
will  forgive  each  other." 

He  accepted  her  hand  promptly  and  evinced  no 
disposition  to  relinquish  it.  "  You  are  so  cold,  though," 
he  said  ruefully.  "  Your  forgiveness  is  merely  indiffer- 
ence. But  of  course,"  hastily,  "  you  are  absorbed  in 
much  weightier  matters  than  friendship.  I  can  imagine 
how  insignificant  all  other  episodes  of  your  past  must 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    417 

"  Oh,  if  it  were  not  for  you  I  might  have  been  here 
before  to-day,  and  in  a  much  worse  predicament.  I 
doubt  if  I  should  have  left  him  as  soon  as  I  did  if  it 
had  not  been  for  your  unpleasant  truths.  I  was  drift- 
ing, and  also  drifting  toward  morbidity,  where  I  might 
have  been  capable  of  anything.  If  I  had  really  killed 
him  and  been  arrested  I  should  have  said  so,  and  even 
you  could  not  have  saved  me." 

"  Oh,  it  would  have  been  easier :  I  could  have  got 
you  off  on  the  plea  of  insanity.  But  am  I  really  a  link 
in  the  chain?  I  am  egoistical — and  interested  — 
enough  to  be  —  pleased." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  laughing  a  little.  "You  have 
had  a  good  deal  more  to  do  with  forging  some  of  the 
links  than  you  imagine." 

His  hand  was  beginning  to  tremble,  and  she  withdrew 
her  own.  He  did  not  attempt  to  recapture  it,  and  for 
a  moment  they  regarded  each  other  defensively.  He 
had  avoided  the  mistake  of  mistakes  for  thirty-six  years, 
and  the  very  flavour  of  romance  about  his  experience 
with  this  woman  made  him  wary.  She  had  been 
mistaken  twice  and  had  ordered  her  imagination  to 
sleep.  Something  within  him  pulled  her,  but  none 
knew  better  than  she  the  independent  activity  of  sex. 
Still,  like  all  women,  fire  was  dear  to  her  fingers.  His 
eyes  had  a  gleam  in  them  which  made  her  experience 
keenly  the  pleasurable  sensation  of  danger. 

"  Did  you  know  that  night  that  I  had  forgotten  our 
conversation  in  the  tower?  "  he  said,  laughing  uneasily. 
"  Well,  I  will  admit  that  I  had,  but  I  certainly  remember 
the  conversation  in  the  elm  walk  —  every  word  of  it. 
It  was  a  singular  conversation,"  he  continued  hurriedly. 
"  I  have  not  found  her  yet,  by  the  way.  What  is  love, 
27 


4i  8    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

anyhow?  Something  always  seems  to  be  lacking.  I 
have  wanted  a  good  many  women,  but  there  were 
shallows  somewhere." 

Patience  had  taken  a  chair  and  was  fanning  herself 
slowly.  She  answered  with  a  judicial  air,  as  of  one 
deciding  some  abstract  point  to  which  she  had  given 
exhaustive  study :  "  The  lack  is  spiritual  emotion. 
People  of  strong  natures  who  are  really  in  love  are 
shaken  by  a  passion  that  for  the  time  being  demands 
no  physical  expression.  It  is  only  when  it  subsides,  in 
fact,  that  the  other  manifests  itself.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  unimpassioned,  the  physically  meagre,  are  incapable 
of  even  imagining  such  an  exaltation  of  emotion.  It 
is  the  supreme  convulsion  of  mystery.  And  it  must  be 
impossible  to  feel  it  more  than  once  in  a  lifetime  —  for 
more  than  one  person,  I  mean." 

"Have  you  ever  felt  it?  "he  asked  abruptly.  He 
was  sitting  opposite  her,  his  brows  drawn  together, 
regarding  her  intently.  Her  cool  impersonality  non- 
plussed him. 

"  No." 

"Then  how  do  you  know?  " 

"  From  the  organ.  If  one  wants  to  read  the  riddle  of 
human  nature  let  him  listen  to  the  organ  for  ten  min- 
utes. It  lashes  the  soul  —  the  emotional  nature  —  up 
to  its  utmost  possibilities.  One  knows  instinctively  — 
that  is,  if  one  is  given  to  reasoning  at  all ;  for  instincts 
are  dead  letters  without  analysis  —  that  only  one  other 
force  can  cause  a  mightier  tumult,  a  greater  exaltation. 
Those  that  do  not  reason  mistake  it  for  a  desire  to 
spread  their  wings  and  fly  to  the  throne  of  grace." 

Bourke  set  his  lips  and  looked  at  the  floor.  "  Of 
course  you  are  right,"  he  said.  "  A  man  would  never 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times   419 

know  that  until  he  had  felt  it.  It  takes  a  woman  to 
divine  it.  Perhaps  it  is  as  well  he  does  n't  know  it  — 
there  is  one  disappointment  the  less  in  life  if  such 
moments  never  come  to  him ;  and  I  doubt  if  they  come 
to  many.  Either  the  savage  is  too  strong  in  most  of 
us,  or  we  never  come  within  range  of  the  responsive 
spark.  I  have  held  that  if  there  is  any  meaning  at  all 
in  the  progress  of  man  out  of  barbarism  it  is  that  he 
shall  become  a  brain  with  a  refinement  and  intensity  of 
passion  which  shall  give  happiness  without  disgust. 
But  you  go  beyond  me." 

"  Oh,  we  are  both  right,"  said  Patience,  rising.  "  We 
are  much  better  off  than  our  ancestors.  I  like  so 
much  to  talk  to  you.  When  I  am  free  you  must  come 
to  see  me  often." 

"  I  shall,  indeed.  How  gracefully  you  fan  yourself. 
I  never  saw  any  one  use  the  fan  in  exactly  the  same 
way." 

"I  learned  how  from  the  old  Spanish  women  in 
Monterey.  They  hold  the  thumb  outwards,  you  know. 
That  makes  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  Au 


XII 

THE  trial  began  on  the  eighth  of  March.  Patience 
slept  ill  the  night  before,  and  arose  early.  She  looked 
forward  to  the  day's  ordeal  with  mingled  nervousness 
and  curiosity.  Her  faith  in  Bourke  was  complete,  and 
her  mind  was  of  the  order  that  craves  experience.  She 
could  not  divest  herself  of  the  idea  that  she  was  about 
to  play  the  part  of  heroine  in  a  great  human  drama. 


42O    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

And  assuredly  there  has  been  no  such  theatre  as  the 
court  room  since  the  world  began. 

She  dressed  herself  with  extreme  care,  in  a  tailor 
frock  and  toque  of  black  and  white.  The  costume  was 
becoming,  but  she  shook  her  head  at  her  reflection  in 
the  mirror :  hers  was  not  the  type  of  beauty  to  appeal 
to  the  class  of  men  in  whose  hands  her  life  would  be ; 
rather  they  would  resent  its  cold  pride,  its  manifest  of 
race  and  civilisation.  She  remembered  her  youthful 
satisfaction  in  the  fact  that  "  common  men  did  not  like 
her."  Rosita  or  Honora  would  carry  a  jury  by  storm, 
but  she  was  too  subtle  to  appeal  to  men  outside  of  her 
own  social  sphere.  Tarbox  liked  her  because  she  was 
game  and  dependent  on  him  for  comfort :  it  was  doubt- 
ful if  he  thought  her  pretty.  He  came  up  at  ten  min- 
utes to  ten.  He  wore  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  and  looked 
excited  and  impatient. 

"  There  's  a  lot  of  swells  come,"  he  said  without  pre- 
liminary ;  "  some  from  New  York  and  some  from  the 
county.  We  Ve  got  'em  up  in  the  gallery,  and  they 
look  fine  in  their  new  spring  clothes,  I  tell  you.  First 
time  I  ever  seen  swells  in  this  court  house.  I  rather 
thought  they  did  n't  go  in  for  that  kind  of  thing." 

"They  go  in  for  fads,  and  you  can  as  easily  tell 
where  lightning  will  strike  next  as  what  will  be  the 
next  fad  to  possess  fashionable  women.  Where  is 
Mr.  Bourke?" 

"Up  in  the  court  room,  I  guess.      Ready?  " 

A  few  moments  later  he  led  her  up  the  stair  at  the 
back  of  the  court  room.  A  crowd  of  men  at  the  door 
parted  to  let  her  enter,  staring  at  her  with  eager  curios- 
ity. As  she  walked  down  the  room  to  her  seat  beside 
her  counsel  she  was  conscious  of  a  deep  level  of  men's 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    421 

faces  below  and  a  tier  of  high-bred  faces  and  bright 
spring  gowns  in  the  gallery  above.  She  felt  as  if  she 
were  being  shot  upon  a  battery  of  eyes,  and  an  impulse 
to  turn  and  run ;  she  looked  like  a  black  and  white 
effigy  of  pride. 

The  large  handsome  room  was  tinted  a  pale  blue 
and  stencilled  about  the  mouldings.  The  Bench  and 
panelling  behind  it,  the  desks  and  tables,  were  of  black 
walnut.  Four  long  windows  on  each  side  of  the  room 
revealed  the  naked  trees  of  March  and  the  cheerless 
landscape.  On  the  right  of  Patience's  chair  was  the 
empty  jury  box,  before  her  the  Bench.  In  the  space 
thus  formed  —  flanked  on  the  other  side  by  the  tales- 
men summoned  for  the  trial  and  at  the  back  by  the 
audience  — was  a  right  angle  of  long  study  tables,  three 
or  four  round  tables,  and  many  chairs.  Every  chair  was 
occupied.  Writing  pads  lay  on  the  smaller  tables. 
Patience  recognised  several  of  the  reporters.  By  one 
of  the  long  tables  before  the  jury  box  sat  Bourke, 
Simms,  and  Lansing.  The  former  whispered  to  her 
that  many  of  the  men  within  the  rail  were  eminent 
lawyers  who  had  come  to  hear  the  case  tried. 

The  judge  sat  alone  on  the  Bench :  an  old  man  with 
pink  face  and  head  and  neck,  a  close  band  of  silver  hair 
at  the  base  of  his  skull.  His  face  was  narrow,  his  upper 
lip  long.  On  either  side  of  his  mouth  was  a  deep  rut. 
The  nose  was  coarse  and  strong,  the  eyes  behind  the 
spectacles  humourous,  severe,  and  a  little  sly.  His 
silver  chin-tuft  was  shaped  like  the  queen  of  hearts. 

Just  below  the  Bench,  beside  one  of  the  long  tables, 
sat  a  man  whom  Patience  did  not  notice  at  once,  but  to 
whom,  as  the  judge  called  the  court  to  order,  she 
turned  suddenly,  conscious  of  a  fixed  gaze.  He  sat 


422    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

with  one  arm  along  the  table,  the  other  hand  absently 
rolling  a  piece  of  paper.  His  narrowed  eyes  were  re- 
garding her  with  cold  speculation.  Patience  shuddered. 
She  knew  that  he  was  Sturges,  the  district  attorney. 
Tarbox  had  told  and  retold  the  history  of  his  jealousy 
of  Bourke,  and  his  registered  vow  to  win  one  of  the 
great  legal  battles  of  which  they  were  occasionally  chief 
combatants.  And  this  was  the  greatest !  The  man's 
face  was  set.  He  looked  like  a  fate. 

The  clerk  called  a  name.  A  man  shuffled  into  the 
jury  box.  Sturges  stood  up  and  put  the  usual  questions. 
He  spoke  with  exaggerated  courtesy.  Occasionally  he 
smiled :  a  mechanical  smile,  as  if  an  invisible  string 
connected  each  corner  of  his  mouth  with  a  manipulator 
at  the  back  of  his  head.  His  voice  was  soothing  and 
cultivated,  his  manner  almost  deferential  to  the  humble 
man  in  the  box.  Patience  followed  every  motion  and 
word  with  fascinated  attention.  When  he  asked  the 
talesman  if  he  had  "  any  conscientious  scruples  regard- 
ing capital  punishment  as  practised  in  this  State,"  she 
felt  the  touch  of  icy  fingers  and  her  feet  slipping  into 
an  open  grave.  Bourke,  who  divined  her  sensa- 
tions, smiled  encouragingly ;  and  after  she  had  heard 
the  question  some  fifty  times,  she  ceased  to  attach  any 
personal  meaning  to  it. 

They  were  four  days  impannelling  the  jury.  The  first 
time  Patience  stood  up  to  face  an  accepted  juror  she 
regarded  the  hairy  and  ill-kept  farmer  with  such 
haughty  and  disdainful  eyes  that  Bourke  whispered 
hurriedly :  "  For  God's  sake  don't  look  at  them  like 
that  or  they  '11  send  you  up  out  of  spite.  Remember 
that  this  class  of  people  is  always  at  war  with  its 
betters.5 ' 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    423 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Patience.  "It's  humiliating 
to  think  of  being  at  the  mercy  of  men  like  that." 

When  the  box  was  filled  at  last  she  regarded  the 
occupants  attentively.  They  were  hard-featured  men 
of  middle  age,  with  long  bare  upper  lip  and  compressed 
mouth.  Their  grey  skin  was  furrowed  with  lines  of 
care  and  hardship,  their  chin  whiskers  grizzled  and 
scant.  Their  eyebrows  stood  out  over  faded  eyes  in 
wrinkled  sockets.  But  what  excited  Patience's  wonder 
was  the  small  size  of  the  heads.  She  had  never  seen 
twelve  heads  so  little.  They  were  hardly  an  advance 
upon  their  hairy  ancestors.  Throughout  the  trial  she 
furtively  watched  the  twelve  faces  of  those  twelve 
meagre  heads.  Never  once  did  their  expression, 
stolid  and  set,  change.  At  night  they  haunted  her. 
She  awoke  in  the  morning  with  a  violent  start,  seeing 
them  for  a  moment  in  a  row  on  the  foot  board  of  her 
bed.  She  speculated,  at  times,  upon  the  lives  of  those 
men,  those  pinched  grubbing  lives,  and  felt  for  them  a 
sort  of  terrified  pity.  What  a  mere  glimpse  of  the 
world  she  had  had,  after  all,  and  what  ugly  strata  it 
had !  What  was  the  matter  with  civilisation  ? 


XIII 

ON  the  fourth  day  the  district  attorney  opened  the 
case  with  an  address  to  the  jury  which  was  a  master- 
piece of  temperate  statement  and  damning  suggestion. 
He  dwelt  long  upon  the  remarkable  points  of  the  case  : 
the  youth  and  beauty  and  intelligence  and  social 
position  of  the  defendant,  the  distinguished  family 


424    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

which  had  been  plunged  into  sorrow  and  disgrace 
by  her  crime,  the  extraordinary  interest  the  crime 
had  excited  throughout  the  civilised  world.  He  then 
gave  a  running  account,  clear  and  straightforward  and 
decisive,  of  what  the  prosecution  would  prove,  and  con- 
cluded with  a  cold,  terse,  but  reiterated  warning  that  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar  was  entitled  to  no  sympathy  because 
of  her  sex  and  position ;  that  he  and  the  jury  were 
there  for  one  purpose  only :  to  consider  the  facts  of 
the  case  and  to  do  their  plain  duty,  utterly  regardless 
of  consequences  to  the  individual.  Every  word  was 
chosen  and  weighed,  and  told  like  the  ring  of  a  steel 
hammer  on  a  steel  plate. 

Dr.  Lewis  was  then  called  to  prove  the  fact  of 
Beverly  Peek's  death,  and  his  vigorous  story  weighed 
heavily  in  the  scales  against  the  defence.  The 
moment  the  district  attorney  sat  down  Bourke  was  on 
his  feet.  For  a  moment  he  stood  lifting  and  shaking 
the  loose  cloth  of  the  table  beside  him  ;  then  asked  one 
or  two  random  questions  which  put  the  witness  for  the 
prosecution  quite  at  his  ease.  In  the  course  of  a 
moment  the  witness  began  to  writhe,  and  at  the  end  of 
five  minutes  manifested  his  consciousness  of  the  fact 
that  he  was  a  small  country  practitioner,  to  be  regarded 
by  any  intelligent  jury  with  contempt.  Nevertheless, 
it  was  impossible  to  shake  his  testimony. 

He  was  followed  by  the  New  York  physician,  a  man 
of  eminence,  who  had  assisted  at  the  death-bed,  then 
by  the  coroner.  The  fact  of  young  Peele's  death  being 
firmly  established  in  the  jury  box,  a  chemist  was  put 
upon  the  stand  to  testify  that  he  had  found  morphine 
in  the  stomach  of  the  deceased.  He  was  worried  and 
badgered  and  ridiculed  and  derided  by  Bourke,  who 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    425 

temporarily  infected  everybody  in  the  court  room 
with  his  scorn  of  the  exercise  of  chemistry  as 'applied 
to  morphine  in  the  stomach  of  a  dead  man,  but  held 
his  ground,  having  been  maltreated  in  a  like  manner 
many  times  before.  Following,  came  a  civil  engineer, 
who  described  the  grounds  and  general  position  of 
Peele  Manor  to  the  jury ;  and  the  testimony  for  the 
day  was  over. 

The  next  morning  the  prosecution  passed  on  to  the 
motive.  Honora  was  the  first  witness  called.  She  wore 
a  black  frock  and  hat,  and  looked  dignified  and  sad. 
In  her  clear  childlike  voice  she  described  to  the  jury 
her  moment  of  confusion  and  horror  when  awakened 
from  a  profound  sleep  by  the  prisoner ;  told  the  mourn- 
ful story  of  the  unavailing  attempts  at  resuscitation; 
and  hesitatingly  admitted,  in  full  detail,  the  unmistak- 
able indifference  of  the  wife.  To  the  latter  testimony 
Mr.  Bourke  "objected,"  as  he  had  done  to  similar 
testimony  by  the  doctors,  but  the  objection  was  over- 
ruled by  the  judge.  She  also  admitted  having  seen 
from  her  window  the  defendant  returning  from  town 
after  her  early  visit  on  the  morning  of  the  "  Eye  " 
story,  inappropriately  attired  in  grey  and  pink,  and 
having  discovered  the  newspapers  in  confusion  on  the 
library  floor  before  any  other  member  of  the  household 
except  the  prisoner  had  arisen.  She  related  Patience's 
previous  complaint  that  her  husband  always  waited 
until  she  was  in  her  first  heavy  sleep  before  demanding 
the  morphine,  and  her  fear  lest  she  should  some  night 
give  him  an  overdose.  The  jury  must  have  been  small 
headed  indeed,  to  fail  to  understand  the  district 
attorney's  insinuations  regarding  the  prisoner's  deep- 
laid  scheme  to  avert  suspicion. 


426    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

As  Honora  gave  her  testimony  Patience  saw  Mr. 
Bourke's  eyes  sparkle.  She  knew  that  some  pregnant 
idea  had  flashed  into  that  lightning-like  brain.  As  the 
district  attorney  took  his  seat  he  rose  slowly  and 
smiled  sociably  at  Honora.  She  bent  her  head  slightly  \ 
she  had  always  liked  him. 

"  Miss  Mairs,"  he  said  haltingly,  his  eyes  wandering 
to  the  judge,  as  if  in  search  of  inspiration,  his  hand 
flirting  the  loose  cloth  of  the  table,  "  you  are  sure 
that  Mrs.  Peele  wore  a  gray  gown  to  New  York  that 
morning?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  the  condition  of  the  newspapers  seemed  to 
you  to  indicate  great  agitation  of  mind?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Yes,  yes.  And  she  returned  in  an  hour  or  two, 
you  say?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Miss  Mairs  !  "  he  thundered,  turning  suddenly  upon 
her  and  pointing  a  rigid  finger  straight  at  her  startled 
face,  "are  you  sure  that  you  were  asleep  when  Mrs. 
Peele  awakened  you  on  the  night  of  Beverly  Peele's 
death?" 

Patience  drew  her  breath  sharply.  She  closed  her 
eyes.  Honora  had  not  been  asleep  that  night !  The 
certainty  came  to  her  as  suddenly  and  as  positively  as 
it  had  come  to  Bourke. 

For  the  fraction  of  a  moment  Honora  hesitated. 
Every  man  and  woman  in  the  court  room  was  breath- 
less. Several  had  started  to  their  feet. 

"  Quite  sure,"  she  replied  finally,  and  that  silver 
shallow  voice  did  not  falter. 

"You  are  sure  that  you  heard  no  one  go  to  the 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    427 

lavatory  that  night,  before  Mrs.  Peele  spoke  to  you?" 
He  hurled  the  words  at  her  as  the  Great  Judge  might 
hurl  the  final  sentence  on  Judgment  Day. 

"Sure." 

"Was  your  door  open  that  night?  " 

"  I  don't  remember." 

Patience  leaned  over  and  whispered  to  Lansing,  who 
sprang  forward  and  whispered  to  Bourke. 

"The  night  was  hot,"  continued  Bourke.  "Were 
you  not  in  the  habit  of  leaving  your  door  open  on  hot 
nights?" 

"  Sometimes." 

"Was  it  not  always  your  custom?  " 

"  Not  always.  When  I  thought  of  it  I  opened  the 
door,  but  I  frequently  forgot  it." 

"  Yes  !  Yes  !  You  are  quite  sure  you  cannot  remem- 
ber whether  or  not  it  was  open  on  that  night?" 

"I  cannot  remember." 

"  Do  you  remember  any  other  nights  on  which  Mrs. 
Peele  went  to  the  lavatory  to  drop  the  morphine?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  a  great  many." 

"But  of  this  all  important  night  you  remember 
nothing?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Yes  !  Mrs.  Peele  never  was  called  upon  to  drop 
the  morphine  until  after  twelve  o'clock.  Were  you  in 
the  habit  of  lying  awake  until  late  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  But  on  this  night  you  went  to  sleep  early?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  heard  or  saw  —  you  are  on  your  oath,  re- 
member—  nothing  whatever  until  Mrs.  Peele  called 
you?" 


428    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Nothing." 

"You  can  go.  —  She  is  lying,"  he  whispered  to 
Patience.  "  Damn  her,  I  '11  make  her  speak  yet  if  I 
have  to  throttle  it  out  of  her." 

Mr.  Peele  was  the  witness  next  called.  He  was 
treated  with  extreme  diffidence  by  the  district  attor- 
ney, and  even  the  judge  gave  him  a  fraternal  smile. 
He  told  the  story  of  the  momentous  night  with  paren- 
tal indignation  finally  controlled,  then,  in  spite  of 
repeated  "  objections  "  and  constant  nagging,  the 
significant  tale  of  wifely  indifference  and  desertion, 
and  read  to  the  jury  "  that  cruel  letter  written  to  a 
dying  man  "  the  day  before  the  defendant  returned 
to  nurse  her  husband.  He  repeated  with  the  dra- 
matic effect  of  the  legal  actor  those  dark  insinua- 
tions of  the  prisoner :  "  You  had  better  let  me  go  ! 
I  feel  that  I  shall  kill  him  if  I  stay !  "  And  later 
in  the  town  house  when  she  had  struck  her  husband 
in  the  face :  "  You  had  better  keep  him  out  of  my 
way.  Do  you  know  that  once  I  tried  to  kill  my  own 
mother?" 

He  told  of  her  eager  interest  in  untraceable  poisons 
one  night  when  the  subject  of  murder  had  come  up  at 
the  dinner-table,  her  cold-blooded  analysis  of  human 
motives. 

Then  he  passed  on  to  the  painfully  significant  his- 
tory of  the  day  before  the  death :  her  demand  for  a 
divorce  ;  her  fury  at  her  husband's  refusal ;  her  acknowl- 
edgment that  she  had  quarrelled  violently  with  the 
deceased  a  short  time  before  calling  the  family  to  his 
death-bed. 

As  he  spoke  Patience's  blood  congealed.  The  wo- 
man he  depicted  was  enough  to  inspire  any  jury  with 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    429 

horror.  It  was  herself  and  not  herself,  a  Galatea  man- 
ufactured by  a  clever  lawyer. 

But  it  was  Mr.  Bourke's  privilege  to  give  the  Galatea 
a  soul.  Despite  the  older  man's  greater  legal  experi- 
ence, his  superior  wariness  and  subtlety,  he  was  forced 
to  admit  that  his  son  was  a  fool ;  that  his  son's  wife  was 
a  woman  of  brilliant  intellect  driven  to  desperation  at 
being  tied  down  to  a  fool ;  that  so  long  as  she  had  lived 
with  him  she  had  done  her  duty ;  that  when  she  had 
returned  as  his  nurse  she  had  fulfilled  her  part  of  the 
contract  to  the  letter;  that  never  had  she  given  her 
husband  cause  for  real  jealousy ;  that  the  witness  him- 
self had  made  a  companion  of  her,  and  that  he  had 
been  bitterly  disappointed  in  his  son. 

The  terrible  facts  could  not  be  stricken  out,  but  Mr. 
Peele,  nevertheless,  was  made  to  pass  the  most  uncom- 
fortable hours  of  his  life.  "And  in  spite  of  these 
threats,"  exclaimed  Bourke,  with  the  accentuation  of 
one  addressing  an  idiot  at  large,  "  in  spite  of  the  pre- 
cision with  which  you  remembered  them,  you  permitted 
your  family  to  implore  her  to  return  and  become  your 
son's  nurse  ;  you  permitted  her  to  sleep  in  a  room  com- 
municating with  his,  where,  in  a  fit  of  passion  —  if  she 
is  the  woman  you  profess  to  believe  her  to  be  —  she 
could  have  murdered  him  in  the  dead  of  night  with  a 
carving  knife  or  a  hatchet,  before  any  one  —  even  the 
lightly  sleeping  Miss  Mairs  —  could  have  flown  to  the 
rescue ;  you  permitted  her  —  "he  turned  suddenly 
and  faced  the  jury,  then  wheeled  about  and  regarded 
Mr.  Peele  with  scornful  inquiry  —  "  you  permitted  her 
to  drop  morphine  for  your  son,  and  to  have  unrestrained 
access  to  the  drug,  knowing  that  he  in  his  agony  would 
swallow  whatever  she  gave  him  without  question.  Will 


430    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

you  kindly  explain  to  the  jury  whether  this  mode  of 
proceeding  was  ingenuousness  on  your  part,  or  criminal 
connivance  ?  " 

Mr.  Peele's  under  lip  pressed  the  upper  almost  to 
the  septum  of  his  nose.  His  eyes  half  closed  and 
glittered  unpleasantly;  but  he  controlled  himself  and 
answered,  — 

"  I  paid  no  attention  to  her  threats  at  the  time." 

"Ah!  You  did  not  believe  in  them?  You  admit 
that?" 

"  I  classed  them  with  the  usual  hysterical  ravings  of 
women.  That  was  my  error." 

"  State,  if  you  please,  your  specific  reasons  for  your 
change  of  mind.  You  will  hardly,  as  a  lawyer,  claim  to 
have  been  converted  to  the  defendant's  capacity  for 
crime  by  the  mere  fact  that  your  son  died  of  an  over- 
dose of  morphine  ?  " 

And  throughout  the  long  day  Mr.  Bourke  hectored 
him,  fighting  him,  point  by  point,  smashing  to  bits  his 
testimony  relative  to  the  events  of  the  day  preceding 
the  death,  evidence  to  which  he  was  not  an  eye-witness, 
which  he  had  received  at  second  hand  from  his  wife 
and  son.  The  "  cruel  letter  written  to  a  dying  man  " 
was  disposed  of  in  a  similar  manner. 

"  You  believed  your  son  to  be  in  a  precarious  con- 
dition when  you  counselled  them  to  send  for  your  son's 
wife?" 

"  I  did." 

"  But  you  believed  with  the  doctors  that  if  she  re- 
turned, thereby  bringing  him  peace  of  mind  as  well  as 
tender  care,  he  had  excellent  chances  for  life?  " 

"  I  did." 

"  And  Mrs.  Burr  was  instructed  to  present  that  phase 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    431 

of  the  question  to  the  defendant,  with  all  the  force  of 
which  she  was  capable?  " 

"Yes." 

"  And  the  defendant  so  understood  it  ?  " 

"I  suppose  she  did." 

"And  yet  you  assert  that  this  purely  business-like 
letter,  written  by  a  self-respecting  woman,  was  ad- 
dressed to  a  dying  man,  while  at  the  same  time  you 
assert  that  this  man  could  be  cured  by  the  gratification 
of  a  whim,  and  that  you  had  taken  particular  pains  to 
make  the  defendant  aware  of  the  fact !  " 

When  Mr.  Peele  finally  left  the  stand,  he  looked 
battered  and  limp. 


XIV 

As  soon  as  the  court  had  opened  on  the  following 
morning,  Mrs.  Peele  was  called.  She  looked  haughtily 
askance  at  the  worn  Bible  as  the  clerk  rattled  off  the 
oath,  bent  her  head  as  would  she  whiff  upon  what 
plebeian  lips  had  touched  so  often  and  so  evidently, 
and  took  the  witness  chair  as  were  she  mounting  a 
throne.  She  was  apparelled  in  crape.  Only  her  in- 
timate friends  could  have  told  whether  the  backward 
bend  of  her  head  was  due  to  the  weight  of  her  veil  or 
the  weight  of  her  ancestors.  At  first  she  stared  at  the 
district  attorney  with  haughty  resentment,  as,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  humble  jury,  he  curtly  asked  her  several 
direct  questions;  but  remembering  that  he  was  "a 
Sturges,"  and  also  recalling  her  husband's  admonitions, 
she  unbent,  and  even  condescended  to  address  the  jury. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Her  tale  of  the  night  in  no  wise  differed  from  her  hus- 
band's ;  but  her  accentuation  of  Patience's  dark  threats 
and  marital  deficiencies  was  all  her  own.  Her  sugges- 
tion of  a  lover  in  the  case  caused  a  sudden  movement 
in  the  jury  box,  although  the  stolid  faces  did  not  relax. 
Under  cross-examination  much  of  her  testimony  was  as 
effectually  demolished  as  her  husband's  had  been. 

Two  maid  servants  followed.  They  testified  to  vio- 
lent quarrels  between  the  young  couple.  Then  the 
butler  testified  to  the  reiterant  and  emphatic  command 
of  the  prisoner  on  the  day  before  the  death  to  send  to 
New  York  for  morphine. 

The  prosecution  produced  its  trump  card  :  the  stable 
boy  who  had  spied  upon  the  interviews  between  the 
prisoner  and  the  mysterious  lover.  The  man  had  evi- 
dently been  carefully  rehearsed  —  as  Bourke  later  on 
pointed  out  to  the  jury  —  for  his  memory  of  the  eight 
or  ten  interviews  he  had  witnessed  needed  little  re- 
freshing. His  "best  recollection  "  was  given  glibly  and 
ungrammatically.  He  dilated  upon  the  young  man's 
remarkable  personal  beauty,  and  observed  that  it  far 
outshone  his  beloved  Mr.  Beverly's.  They  had  talked 
principally  of  books  in  all  but  the  last  two  interviews, 
but  had  looked  perfectly  happy.  His  account  of  the  last 
two  interviews  created  a  profound  impression  in  the 
court  room,  even  the  jury  leaning  forward  slightly. 
The  judge  frowned  and  wheeled  his  chair  sharply  when 
the  man  gave  the  gist  of  the  prisoner's  matter-of- 
fact  objection  to  living  with  a  man  who  was  not  her 
husband. 

Mr.  Bourke's  rich  voice  had  never  rung  with  deeper 
indignation  and  disgust,  never  shaped  itself  to  more 
cutting  sarcasm  than  when  he  made  the  man  see  him- 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    433 

self  and  the  jury  see  him  as  a  coward,  a  cur,  a  spy,  a 
liar,  an  eager  schemer  for  an  innocent  woman's  life. 
"  You  felt  it  your  duty,"  he  concluded,  "  to  spy  upon  a 
woman  of  irreproachable  reputation  who  met  a  friend 
in  an  open  wood  in  broad  daylight  —  Yes,  yes,"  with  all 
the  lingering  scornful  emphasis  which  only  he  could  give 
that  simple  word.  "  You  never  felt  yourself  a  cowardly 
scoundrel  meddling  in  what  was  none  of  your  business 
—  No  !  No  !  "  He  turned  to  the  jury  with  the  passion 
still  upon  his  face,  but  when  he  took  his  seat  he  smiled 
encouragingly  to  his  admiring  young  client. 

"Would  n't  he  make  an  actor?  "  whispered  Simms. 
"  I  never  saw  him  do  the  lofty  indignation  act  with 
finer  effect." 

"Well,  he  would  be  a  great  actor,  at  least,"  retorted 
Patience,  "  and  I  am  convinced  that  you  would  be  a 
very  small  one." 

"  Just  wait,"  said  Simms,  angrily.  "  I  Ve  got  to  talk 
to  this  jury  about  you  in  a  day  or  two,  and  if  you  don't 
forget  I  ever  doubted  you  I  '11  eat  my  hat.  The  best 
lawyer  's  the  best  fakir,  and  a  few  days  from  now  you  '11 
see  what  an  ambitious  man  I  am." 

"  Miss  Rosita  Thrailkill,"  called  the  district  attorney 
when  the  court  opened  next  morning.  The  audience 
stood  up  to  a  man. 

A  plump  willowy  Spanish  figure  undulated  behind 
the  jury  box,  kissed  the  Bible  reverently,  and  ascended 
the  witness  stand.  Rosita  was  clad  in  black  and  yel- 
low, a  mantilla  in  place  of  a  hat,  and  many  diamonds. 
She  looked  as  pretty  and  as  naughty  as  possible.  As 
she  met  Patience's  eyes,  she  wafted  her  a  kiss,  and  the 
prisoner  groaned  in  spirit.  She  gave  her  name  and 
birthplace  with  melodious  caressing  accent  and  her 
28 


434    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

marked  precision  of  speech.  Yes,  the  defendant  had 
been  her  dear  friend,  her  best  friend,  her  only  intimate 
friend.  Yes,  with  unaffected  reluctance,  Mrs.  Spar- 
hawk  had  been  disreputable,  and  Patience  had  once 
attempted  her  life.  Yes,  she  was  the  prima  donna  of 
light  opera  known  as  La  Rosita.  Did  she  appear  be- 
fore the  public  in  tights  and  scant  attire?  Yes,  why 
not?  Had  she  not  had  a  number  of  lovers?  Objected 
to  and  sustained.  Flashing  indignation  of  soft  Spanish 
eyes.  Did  she  not  have  the  reputation  of  being  a 
woman  of  loose  and  lawless  life  ?  Objected  to  and  sus- 
tained. Angry  rattle  of  fan.  Was  it  not  in  her  house 
that  the  prisoner  was  arrested  ?  Yes,  it  was  !  and  she 
loved  her  Patita  and  would  always  give  her  shelter. 

When  the  district  attorney  sat  down  with  an  ugly 
smile  on  his  thin  mouth,  Bourke,  muttering  ana- 
thema, rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Was  there  ever  a  whisper  against  your  reputation 
when  you  were  a  school-girl  in  Monterey  and  most 
intimate  with  the  prisoner?  " 

"No,  senorf"  cried  Rosita,  paying  no  attention  to 
the  objection.  "I  was  a  child,  and  could  not  even 
endure  boys." 

"  How  many  times  have  you  seen  the  defendant 
since  you  left  Monterey?  " 

Rosita  cast  up  her  eyes,  then  tapped  the  sticks  of  her 
fan  successively  as  she  spoke. 

"  Once  she  came  to  see  me  just  after  —  ah  —  WCTU 
died ;  then  once  just  before  she  left  Mr.  Peele ;  then 
that  day  the  '  Eye  '  came  out  and  said  she  had  done  this 
so  horrible  thing.  Ay,  dios  !  " 

"  She  has  called  upon  you  three  times  only,  then, 
since  you  were  children  in  Monterey,  since  you  have 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    435 

been  the  Rosita  of  the  public ;  in  the  last  five  years, 
in  short  ?  " 

"  Si,  senor  —  yes,  sir." 

"  How  long  did  she  remain  upon  her  first  visit  ?  " 

"  Oh,  only  a  little  while.  I  told  her  something  that 
shocked  her,  for  she  was  always  so  proper." 

"What  did  you  tell  her?" 

"  Objected  to,"  cried  the  district  attorney. 

"  Objection  sustained,"  snapped  the  judge. 

"  How  long  did  she  remain  on  her  second  visit  ?  " 

"  About  a  half  hour.  I  never  knew  what  she  came 
at  all  for.  She  just  floated  in  and  out."  Rosita  waved 
her  arm  with  enchanting  grace. 

"Did  she  tell  you  why  she  came  the  third  time?" 

"  Because  she  had  no  other  place  to  go  to.  She  said 
no  hotel  would  take  her  in." 

"She  said  that  her  old  landlady  had  refused  to 
admit  her,  did  she  not?" 

"Si,  senor." 

"  Yes,  yes !  —  and  that  in  her  terrible  extremity 
she  naturally  turned  to  the  friend  of  her  childhood?  " 

"Si/"  and  Rosita  wept. 

"  But  that  she  should  not  have  gone  to  your  house  if 
there  had  been  any  possibility  of  obtaining  entrance  to 
a  hotel,  or  if  she  had  not  been  turned  out  of  her 
father-in-law's  house?  " 

"Ay,  yi !  yes." 

"  That  is  all.     You  can  go." 

During  the  rest  of  that  day  and  the  two  following 
days  the  experts  for  the  prosecution  had  the  stand. 
The  innumerable  questions  asked  by  the  district 
attorney,  the  technical  details  of  the  cross-exami- 
nations, the  constant  interruptions,  and  the  minutiae 


436    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

of  the  evidence  emptied  the  court  room  after  the  first 
hour,  and  even  Patience  became  bored,  and  fell  to 
thinking  of  other  things,  not  forgetting  to  pity  those 
twelve  puzzled  little  heads  in  the  jury  box. 

The  gist  of  the  evidence  was  that  there  was  enough 
morphine  in  Beverly  Peele's  stomach  to  kill  two  men. 


XV 


"  OUR  turn  has  come,"  said  Lansing  to  Patience  on  the 
morning  after  the  expert  testimony  was  concluded. 
"  We  are  confident  of  success  now." 

"  But  the  facts  are  hideous,  and  they  have  painted 
me  black." 

"  Mr.  Bourke  scraped  off  a  good  deal,  and  he  '11  have 
the  rest  off  before  he  gets  through.  If  he  could  only 
make  that  lying  woman  open  her  mouth  !  You  Ve  borne 
yourself  splendidly.  Keep  in  good  condition  for  the 
witness  stand.  Are  you  frightened  ?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  smiling  at  Bourke  gratefully.  "  Not 
a  bit." 

Simms  opened  the  case  for  the  defence. 

He  had  a  harsh  strident  voice.  He  gesticulated  as  if 
practising  for  a  prize  fight,  doubling  back  and  spring- 
ing forward.  He  cleared  his  throat  with  vicious 
emphasis  and  rasped  his  heels  upon  the  floor.  His 
statements  were  dry  and  matter-of-fact,  his  language 
bald ;  but  he  made  a  direct  vigorous  and  enthusiastic 
speech.  The  jury  was  informed  that  it  was  there  to 
save  the  life  of  one  of  the  most  brilliant  and  high-minded 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    437 

young  women  of  the  age,  —  a  woman  utterly  incapable 
of  murder  or  of  any  violent  act,  a  woman  with  the  mild 
and  meditative  mind  of  the  student.  That  it  would  be 
proved  not  only  that  she  was  far  too  clever  to  take  life 
by  such  clumsy  methods,  but  that  she  had  no  object, 
as  she  had  gained  her  liberty,  and  the  lover  was  a  myth. 
The  whole  prosecution  was  a  malignant  and  personal 
prosecution  of  an  innocent  but  too  gifted  woman  by 
an  absurdly  conceited  family  that  had  resented  her 
superior  intelligence.  This  and  much  more  of  fact  and 
fancy.  But  Patience,  with  perverse  feminity,  liked 
him  none  the  better,  and  would  not  even  look  at  him 
when  he  sat  down. 

Mr.  Field  was  the  first  witness  for  the  defence. 
Although  compelled  under  cross-examination  to  admit 
the  prisoner's  interest  in  subtle  poisons,  he  managed  to 
convey  to  the  jury  that  it  was  merely  the  result  of  an 
unusually  brilliant  and  inquiring  mind,  a  thought  born 
of  the  moment,  of  his  suggestion.  He  gave  the  highest 
tribute  to  her  cleverness,  her  work  on  his  paper,  and 
to  her  reputation. 

Latimer  Burr  was  called  next,  and  spoke  with  enthu- 
siasm of  her  "  unfailing  submission  to  a  man  of  abomi- 
nable and  savage  temper  until  submission  ceased  to  be 
a  virtue."  He  had  never  heard  her  utter  any  threats 
to  kill.  Yes,  it  was  true  that  he  had  engaged  counsel 
for  defence.  He  believed  in  her  thoroughly. 

Miss  Merrien,  her  landlady,  and  Mrs.  Blair  were  put 
on  the  stand  next  morning,  and  the  good  character 
they  gave  Patience  was  unshaken  by  the  nagging  of  the 
district  attorney.  Mr.  Tarbox  testified  to  her  demeanour 
of  innocence  during  her  imprisonment. 

"But  the  defence  is  weak  all  the  same,"  whispered 


43 8    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Patience  to  Lansing.  "Not  a  word  can  be  said  in 
rebuttal.  Only  Mr.  Bourke's  eloquence  can  save 
me." 

"  Good  character  goes  a  long  way,"  replied  Lansing. 
"  You  have  no  idea  of  its  weight  with  a  jury,  particu- 
larly with  a  jury  of  this  kind." 

Patience  was  put  on  the  witness  stand  next.  The 
supreme  effort  to  overcome  nervousness  gave  her  an  icy 
and  repellent  demeanour.  Never  had  she  held  her  back 
as  erect,  her  head  as  high.  She  kept  her  eyelids  half 
lowered,  and  spoke  with  scarcely  any  change  of  inflec- 
tion. She  told  the  story  of  the  night  as  she  had  told 
it  in  rehearsal  many  times.  There  had  been  a  quarrel 
an  hour  before  she  heard  the  deceased  get  up  and  go 
to  the  lavatory.  She  offered  to  drop  his  morphine,  and 
he  replied  with  an  oath  that  she  should  never  do 
another  thing  for  him  as  long  as  he  lived,  that  he 
hoped  she  would  leave  the  house  by  the  first  train  next 
morning.  His  sudden  silence  upon  his  return  to  his  bed 
excited  her  apprehension,  and  she  called  the  family. 

When  Bourke  sat  down  and  the  district  attorney 
arose  and  confronted  her  she  shivered  suddenly. 
Bourke's  rich  strong  voice  and  kind  magnetic  gaze  had 
given  her  courage,  but  this  man  with  his  eyes  like  grey 
ice,  his  mechanical  smile,  and  cold  smooth  voice  con- 
jured up  a  sudden  awful  picture  of  the  execution  room 
at  Sing  Sing.  Her  insight  appreciated  with  exactitude 
the  pitiless  ambition  of  the  man,  knew  that  he  stood 
pledged  to  his  future  to  send  her  to  her  death.  He 
made  her  admit  all  the  damning  facts  of  the  evidence 
against  her,  the  facts  which  stood  out  like  phosphores- 
cent letters  on  a  black  wall,  and  to  acknowledge  her 
abhorrence  of  the  man  that  had  been  her  husband.  But 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    439 

all  this  had  been  anticipated :  at  least  he  could  not 
confuse  her. 

Again  two  days  and  a  part  of  a  third  were  monopo- 
lised by  experts.  These  two  illustrious  chemists  testi- 
fied, through  the  same  bewildering  mass  of  detail  as 
that  employed  by  their  equally  illustrious  predecessors, 
that  there  was  not  enough  morphine  in  Beverly  Peele's 
stomach  to  kill  a  cat. 

There  was  a  short  interval,  after  the  second  expert 
had  been  permitted  to  leave  the  stand,  during  which 
Bourke  and  Simms  and  Lansing  conferred  together, 
preparatory  to  the  summing  up  of  the  former.  As 
Bourke  was  about  to  rise,  the  district  attorney  stood 
up,  cleared  his  throat,  and  said  :  "  One  moment,  please. 
Will  Miss  Honora  Mairs  kindly  take  the  stand?  " 

Bourke  was  on  the  alert  in  an  instant.  "  The  case 
for  the  prosecution  has  closed,"  he  said. 

"This  is  by  special  permission  of  the  Court,"  replied 
the  district  attorney,  coldly. 

As  Honora  ascended  the  stand  there  was  a  deep 
murmur  of  admiration.  She  looked  like  an  angel, 
nothing  less.  She  wore  a  white  lawn  frock,  girt  with  a 
blue  sash ;  a  large  white  leghorn  lined  with  azure  velvet, 
against  which  the  baby  gold  of  her  hair  shone  softly. 
Her  great  blue  eyes  had  the  clear  calm  serenity  of  a 
young  child.  Patience  drew  her  breath  in  a  series  of 
short  gasps.  Bourke  sat  with  clenched  hands. 

"  We  understand,"  said  the  district  attorney,  severely, 
"  that  you  did  not  tell  all  you  knew  the  other  day,  and 
that  you  have  signified  your  willingness  to  now  tell  the 
truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  Is 
this  true?" 

Honora  bowed  her  head  with  an  expression  of  deep 


44O    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

humility,  as  a  child  might  that  had  been  justly 
rebuked. 

"You  had  not  slept  at  all  upon  that  fatal  night? " 

"No." 

"Your  door  was  open?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  did  see  somebody  enter  the  lavatory  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"Whom  did  you  see?" 

There  was  a  moment's  breathless  silence,  during 
which  Patience  wondered  if  a  clock  had  ever  ticked  so 
loudly,  or  if  the  sun  had  ever  shone  with  so  vicious 
a  glare. 

"  Whom  did  you  see  ?  "  repeated  the  district  attorney. 

"The  prisoner." 

"What  did  she  do?" 

"  She  dropped  some  thirty  or  forty  drops  of  mor- 
phine, I  should  say,  then  half  filled  the  glass  with  water, 
as  usual." 

"  You  did  not  see  the  deceased  go  to  the  lavatory 
that  night." 

"  No." 

"  Nor  any  one  else  until  the  defendant  called  you?  " 

"No." 

"That  is  all." 

Mr.  Bourke  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  nostrils  dilating, 
his  fine  face  quivering  with  unassumed  scorn  and 
indignation. 

"You  admit  that  you  perjured  yourself  the  other 
day?" 

"  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  —  " 

"  Never  mind  what  you  had  not  made  up  your  mind 
to  do.  You  admit  that  you  perjured  yourself?  " 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    441 

"Yes,"  gently. 

"  That  in  other  words  you  lied." 

"  Yes,  sir."     Her  voice  was  like  the  quiver  of  a  violin. 

"  What  proof  are  we  to  have  that  you  are  not  lying 
now?" 

"  I  am  not  lying.     My  conscience  gave  me  no  rest." 

"  It  will  give  you  more,  I  suppose,  if  you  will  have 
succeeded  in  swearing  away  the  life  of  an  innocent 
woman.  Yes,  yes  !  —  Exactly  how  long  did  Mrs.  Peele 
remain  in  the  lavatory?" 

"  I  cannot  remember.     Five  or  ten  minutes." 

"State  the  exact  time." 

"  Perhaps  five." 

"And  a  few  moments  later  when  she  ran  into  your 
room  you  pretended  to  be  asleep  :  Why  did  you  assume 
sleep ;  what  reason  had  you  for  lying  at  that  time?  " 

"  I  had  dropped  off." 

"  You  had  been  sufficiently  wide  awake  five  minutes 
before  to  note  precisely  all  these  other  things,  and  then 
had  promptly  fallen  into  a  sound  sleep.  Is  that  your 
usual  habit?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Did  you  speak  to  the  prisoner  when  she  came  into 
the  lavatory?" 

"No." 

"  Were  not  you  in  the  habit  of  holding  a  conversa- 
tion with  her  upon  such  occasions  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Why  did  you  not  address  her  on  that  night?  " 

"  I  was  very  sleepy,  and  had  nothing  in  particular  to 
say." 

"  But  you  were  not  too  sleepy  to  note  carefully  all 
the  details  in  the  evidence  you  have  just  given.  You 


442    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

can  go,  —  and  to  the  devil,"  he  muttered.  He  thrust 
his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  wheeled  about,  looking 
at  Patience  with  such  intensity  of  gaze  that  she  moved 
suddenly  forward.  Her  face  was  pale,  but  her  eyes 
blazed  with  rage.  Bourke  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"  It  is  twenty  minutes  to  one,"  he  said.  "  I  would 
ask  your  honour  to  adjourn  until  two.  I  must  have 
time  to  digest  this  new  testimony.  Its  remarkable 
glibness  prevented  me  from  giving  it  the  running  delib- 
eration that  it  demanded." 

The  judge  sulkily  dismissed  the  court.  As  Patience 
passed  out  of  the  room  with  Tarbox  she  heard  the 
word  "angel"  more  than  once,  and  knew  that  it  did 
not  refer  to  her. 

Patience  was  not  conscious  of  fear  as  she  ate  her 
luncheon.  Her  heart  was  black  with  rage.  "  I  'd  will- 
ingly murder  her"  she  thought,  "  and  my  conscience 
wouldn't  trouble  me  the  least  little  bit." 


XVI 

IMMEDIATELY  after  recess  Mr.  Bourke  began  his  sum- 
ming up.  He  commenced  quietly,  shaking  the  loose 
cloth  of  the  table  in  an  absent  manner.  His  language 
was  colloquial  as  he  spoke  to  the  jury  of  its  grave 
responsibilities,  and  complimented  it  upon  the  "  unusual 
intelligence  which  it  had  so  far  made  evident."  He 
passed  naturally  to  the  subject  in  hand,  and  dwelt  elo- 
quently upon  the  character  of  the  defendant,  of  her 
lonely  pathetic  youth,  her  high  ideals,  her  remarkable 
intelligence,  her  ignorance  of  the  world  which  had  led 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    443 

her  to  fall  in  love  with  the  first  handsome  and  attractive 
man  that  had  addressed  her. 

His  voice  rose  to  tragic  pitch  as  he  dwelt  upon  the 
terrible  awakening  of  such  a  woman,  bound  for  life  to 
such  a  man,  —  a  sensual,  ill-tempered,  selfish  brute, 
who  was  a  disgrace  to  the  nineteenth  century. 

He  depicted  two  years  of  uncomplaining  wifely  de- 
votion (until  Patience  became  lost  in  admiration  of  the 
defendant),  the  husband's  frantic  rages  about  nothing, 
his  unrecognition  of  her  superiority,  his  ignorant  deter- 
mination to  make  her  his  slave  —  his  plaything  —  she, 
a  woman  whom  such  men  as  James  E.  Field  and  Gar- 
diner Peele  delighted  to  honour. 

Then  he  dropped  again  into  pathos  (which  never  for 
a  moment  degenerated  into  bathos)  and  described  the 
desolate  life  of  such  a  woman  in  an  empty  frivolous  brain- 
less society  (faint  murmur  and  indignant  rustle  in  the 
gallery) ,  a  society  of  idle  people  with  neither  soul  nor 
intelligence,  but  who  squandered  the  money  wrested 
from  the  People,  the  great  People,  of  whom  the  Gentle- 
men of  the  Jury  were  twelve  worthy  and  doubtless  long 
suffering  members. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  emphasised  and  recapitulated 
with  every  resource  of  his  splendid  vocabulary,  every 
modulation  of  his  glorious  voice,  by  controlled  and  tell- 
ing gesture,  by  sudden  tremendous  bursts  of  indigna- 
tion, the  married  life  of  the  prisoner,  that  he  passed  to 
the  day  and  night  of  the  tragedy.  He  began  with  the 
morning,  and  dwelt  upon  every  detail  of  the  day.  Be- 
fore he  reached  midnight  he  had  Beverly  Peele  in  a 
frame  of  mind  for  both  suicide  and  murder.  He  sent 
him  to  bed  with  black  skin  and  white  flecked  nose  and 
chaos  in  his  heart.  With  a  magnificent  burst  of  scorn 


444    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

he  quoted  his  shameful  language  when  his  wife  had 
offered  to  get  him  the  morphine,  the  oaths  he  had 
used  to  a  "  refined  and  elegant  and  patient  woman." 
Then  he  took  him  to  the  lavatory,  showed  him  jerking 
the  stopper  from  the  morphine  bottle,  and  recklessly 
pouring  a  fourth  of  its  contents  into  a  glass.  "He 
knew  that  he  had  to  die  anyhow,  and  he  could  at  least 
die  happy  in  a  hideous  revenge."  In  brief  and  vivid 
phrase  he  cited  several  similar  instances  in  legal 
history. 

Then  he  returned  to  Peele  Manor  and  denounced  the 
jealous  woman  who  for  five  years  had  nursed  fury  in 
her  heart,  and  who,  on  the  witness  stand,  here,  Gentle- 
men of  the  Jury,  conceived,  at  the  unfortunate  sugges- 
tion of  the  speaker,  the  frightful  revenge  upon  a  woman 
who  had  treated  her  with  unvarying  kindness.  She 
did  not  speak  at  once,  partly  because  her  lying  tale 
needed  rehearsing,  partly  because  she  believed  that  the 
case  for  the  prosecution  would  win  without  her.  But 
when  she  saw  that  the  case  for  the  prosecution  was 
wholly  lost  she  arrayed  herself  like  an  angel,  that  she 
might  the  better  impose  upon  the  unworldly  Gentlemen 
of  the  Jury,  and  swore  away  a  woman's  life. 

The  several  assertions  on  the  defendant's  part  that 
she  felt  disposition  to  murder  he  tore  to  rags  and  flung 
in  the  face  of  the  jury.  Had  not  every  high  tempered 
person  —  could  not  the  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury  recall 
having  exclaimed  in  bitter  moments :  "  I  wish  you 
were  dead  !  I  could  kill  you  !  "  With  deep  regret 
and  remorse  he  would  confess  that  he  had  used  similar 
expressions  many  times. 

Then  with  consummate  skill  he  dilated  upon  the  im- 
possibility of  so  clever  a  woman  as  the  defendant 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    445 

doing  aught  so  stupid  as  to  murder  in  the  manner  of 
the  accusation.  When  there  was  nothing  left  to  say 
on  this  subject  he  expatiated  upon  the  lack  of  motive 
with  a  technical  and  personal  brilliancy  which  made 
even  the  cross-grained  old  judge  lean  forward  with  a 
cynical  smile. 

The  interviews,  even  the  final  ones,  with  the  myste- 
rious stranger,  he  treated  with  contempt,  although  the 
contempt  was  sufficiently  long  drawn  out  to  impress 
the  jury  with  every  most  insignificant  detail.  It  was 
the  mere  longing  for  companionship  of  a  lonely  woman  : 
that  was  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  it.  The  lover, 
the  intention  of  either  to  marry,  he  disposed  of  with  a 
vehemence  which  made  Simms  twist  about  suddenly 
and  look  at  Lansing ;  but  the  young  man  was  regard- 
ing his  chief  with  rapt  admiration. 

Not  so  much  as  the  scraping  of  a  boot  heel  was  heard 
in  the  court  room.  Patience  glanced  at  the  district 
attorney.  His  face  was  set  and  sullen. 

After  every  possible  point  had  been  considered 
Bourke  concluded  with  an  appeal  so  stirring,  so  ring- 
ing, so  thrilling  that  every  person  in  the  court  room 
except  the  district  attorney  sat  forward  and  held  his 
breath.  No  such  burst  of  passion  had  ever  been  heard 
in  that  room  before.  Patience  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands.  Her  heart  beat  suffocatingly.  The  blood 
pounded  in  her  ears ;  but  not  one  note  of  that  won- 
derful voice,  not  one  phrase  of  fire,  escaped  her. 

Is  there  any  possible  condition  in  which  a  man  can 
appear  to  such  supreme  advantage  as  when  pleading 
for  the  life  of  a  fellow  being,  more  particularly  of  a 
young  and  beautiful  woman?  How  paltry  all  the  time- 
worn  rescues  of  woman  from  sinking  ship  and  runaway 


446    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

horse  and  burning  house.  A  great  criminal  lawyer 
standing  before  the  jury  box  with  a  life  in  his  hand  has 
the  unique  opportunity  to  display  all  the  best  gifts  ever 
bestowed  upon  man :  genius,  brain,  passion,  heart, 
soul,  eloquence,  a  figure  instinct  with  grace  and  virility, 
a  face  blazing  with  determination  to  snatch  a  man  or 
woman  from  the  most  awful  of  dooms. 

And  all  in  two  short  hours. 

If  those  in  the  court  room  for  whom  the  case  had  no 
personal  interest  were  at  Bourke's  feet,  hanging  upon 
his  words,  adoring  him  for  the  moment,  what  were  the 
feelings  of  the  woman  for  whom  he  was  making  so  des- 
perate and  manly  a  fight  ?  She  forgot  her  danger,  forgot 
everything  but  the  man,  the  reckless  joy  of  loving,  of 
being  swept  out  of  her  calm  orbit  at  last.  Her  analytical 
brain  was  dulled,  her  arms  ached,  her  heart  shook  her 
body. 

As  Bourke  made  a  few  supplementary  remarks  cal- 
culated to  take  the  wind  out  of  the  district  attorney's 
sails,  —  references  to  the  young  man's  ambition,  his 
youthful  eagerness  to  become  famous,  what  the  winning 
of  such  a  great  case  would  mean  to  him,  and  to  his 
remarkable  cleverness  and  skill  with  a  jury,  —  Patience 
heard  Simms  say  to  Lansing  :  "  My  God  !  Bourke  has 
surpassed  even  himself.  Even  he  never  got  as  high  as 
that  before." 

"He  's  the  greatest  man  in  the  country,  God  bless 
him  !  "  said  Lansing. 

As  Bourke  finally  dropped  upon  his  chair  he  turned 
to  Patience.  Their  eyes  met  and  lingered ;  and  in 
that  moment  each  passed  into  the  other's  keeping. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    447 


XVII 

STURGES  lost  no  time  taking  his  stand  before  the  jury 
box.  It  was  the  hour  of  his  life,  but  he  was  not  ner- 
vous. His  long  thin  figure  leaning  toward  the  box  as 
he  rested  his  finger  tips  on  the  table,  showed  as  fine 
a  repose  of  nerve  as  of  brain.  His  clear-cut  face 
with  the  cruel  mouth  and  pleasant  smile  was  calm 
and  unclouded. 

He  began  by  defending  himself  against  Mr.  Bourke's 
remarks,  and  asserted  with  convincing  emphasis  that 
when  he  had  taken  the  oath  of  office  he  had  left  his 
personal  ambition  behind  him  with  his  personal  in- 
terests, and  had  given  himself  body  and  soul  and  brain 
to  the  People  of  Westchester  County.  Then  he  made 
an  equally  earnest  statement  of  the  grave  responsibili- 
ties of  a  district  attorney,  his  solemn  duty  to  the  Peo- 
ple, the  necessity  to  smother  all  promptings  of  humanity 
that  he  might  do  what  was  best  for  the  People  —  "  The 
greatest  good  of  the  greatest  number." 

Then  he  painted  Patience  as  black  as  Bourke  had 
enamelled  her  white.  With  masterly  ingenuity  he 
made  each  juror  feel  what  an  awful  being  a  bad  woman 
was,  an  unloving  undutiful  wife ;  what  a  curse  each 
man  of  them  would  writhe  under  had  Fate  played  him 
as  scurvy  a  trick  as  it  had  played  poor  Beverly  Peele  ; 
that  no  unloved  husband's  life  would  be  safe  were  not 
such  women  exploited  and  punished,  that  if  the 
Gentlemen  of  the  Jury  were  weak  enough  to  consider 
her  sex  they  might  be  imperilling  the  lives  of  count- 


448    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

less  thousands.  For  the  matter  of  that,  he  reiterated, 
crime  had  no  sex. 

He  took  up  each  detail  of  the  story,  and  in  the  light 
of  his  interpretation  Patience  was  the  modern  Lucretia 
Borgia  and  Beverly  Peele  an  injured,  peaceable,  affec- 
tionate husband,  who  had  been  sacrificed  by  an  aban- 
doned woman  to  whom  he  had  given  his  honoured 
name,  his  fortune,  and  his  love. 

He  scarcely  raised  his  voice.  There  was  no  passion 
in  his  utterance ;  but  he  manufactured  a  mosaic,  bit 
by  bit,  each  fragment  fitting  so  exactly  that  the  design 
was  without  crevice  or  crack.  He  demonstrated  math- 
ematically that  the  tardy  evidence  of  Miss  Mairs  had 
been  superfluous ;  that  the  chain  of  circumstantial  evi- 
dence was  symmetrical  and  complete,  and  that  no  pos- 
sible motive  beyond  duty  to  her  conscience  could  be 
attributed  to  her.  With  devilish  adroitness,  without  a 
direct  phrase,  he  managed  to  filter  into  those  twelve 
small  brains  the  secret  of  the  inspired  eloquence  of  the 
eminent  counsel  for  the  defence,  —  in  behalf  of  his 
young  and  beautiful  client. 

While  he  was  talking,  the  skeleton  trees  beyond  the 
windows  grew  dim  of  outline,  the  mass  of  colour  in  the 
gallery  faded.  An  official  came  out  of  the  library  be- 
hind the  court  room  and  lit  the  tall  gas  lamps  on  either 
side  of  the  bench.  The  judge  looked  like  a  bas-relief 
in  pink  and  silver  against  the  dark  panelling  of  the  back- 
ground. The  rest  of  the  room  was  in  shadow.  The 
light  of  the  near  jet  fell  full  upon  Sturges'  stern  face. 

Patience's  life  from  "  its  fiendish  childhood  "  was  re- 
hearsed with  such  consecutive  logic  that  crime  at  some 
point  of  such  a  woman's  career  was  inevitable.  The 
only  wonder  was  that  it  had  not  been  committed  sooner. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    449 

The  threats,  he  demonstrated,  whether  uttered  in  mo- 
ments of  passion  or  not,  were  the  significant  output  of 
a  brooding  mind.  The  "  cruel  letter  to  a  dying  man  " 
was  read  with  slow  and  indignant  emphasis.  Then  the 
events  of  the  fatal  day  and  night,  the  quarrels,  the 
prisoner's  fury  at  being  denied  a  divorce,  the  deceased's 
threat  to  live  twenty  years  to  spite  her,  her  carefully 
rehearsed  and  absurd  story  that  her  husband  had 
dropped  the  morphine  himself,  —  something  he  knew 
himself  physically  incapable  of  doing,  —  the  equal  ab- 
surdity of  his  suicide  when  a  greater  revenge  lay  in  his 
hands,  her  brutal  indifference  while  he  lay  dying,  were 
deliberately  gone  over  with  passionless  and  insidious 
effect.  The  quiet  half-lit  room  was  oddly  in  keeping 
with  the  deadly  methods  of  the  man. 

When  he  had  made  the  most  of  her  flight  on  the 
morning  of  the  "Eye"  story,  he  paused  a  moment, 
during  which  the  rising  wind  could  be  heard  in  the 
trees.  Within,  there  was  no  sound.  No  one  seemed 
breathing.  Bourke  and  Patience  were  in  deep  shadow. 
With  an  instinct  of  protection  he  clasped  his  hand  sud- 
denly about  hers. 

Sturges  resumed,  with  lowered  and  vibrating  voice  : 

"  And  —  where  —  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury,  —  was  — 
this  —  woman  —  arrested  ? In  the  house  of  a  har- 
lot!" He  paused  another  half  moment.  "In  the 
house  of  her  oldest  friend,  La  Rosita,  one  of  the  most 
abandoned  women  in  America." 

Bourke's  hand  twitched  spasmodically.  Simms  twisted 
his  neck,  and  shot  at  Lansing  an  uneasy  glance.  Pa- 
tience shuddered.  For  the  moment  she  forgot  Bourke. 
She  felt  as  if  a  cobra  were  folding  her  about,  —  very 
slowly,  and  gently,  and  inexorably. 
29 


450    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

When  Sturges  sat  down  the  jury  was  told  to  rise. 
The  judge  stood  under  one  of  the  lamps  and  read  them 
his  charge.  He  explained  that  unless  they  could  find 
the  prisoner  guilty  of  murder  in  the  first  degree  —  of 
deliberate  premeditated  murder  —  they  must  acquit  her. 
As  the  final  quarrel  had  taken  place  an  hour  before  the 
killing  it  was  obviously  impossible  that  she  could  have 
dropped  the  morphine  in  a  moment  of  excitement ;  and 
a  verdict  of  self-defence  would  be  equally  absurd.  He 
also  charged  them  that  they  were  to  consider  the  law 
in  the  case  and  nothing  but  the  law,  —  that  human 
sympathy  must  have  no  place  in  their  verdict. 

Bourke  was  too  able  a  lawyer  not  to  have  the  last 
word.  As  the  judge  sat  down,  he  arose  with  several 
sheets  of  manuscript,  and  for  twenty  minutes  asked  the 
judge  to  charge  the  jury  so  and  so,  practically  recapitu- 
lating all  the  strong  points  of  the  defence.  The  judge 
answered  mechanically,  "  I  so  charge,"  and  at  last  the 
patient  jury  was  conducted  out  of  the  court  room  and 
locked  up.  Bourke  was  surrounded  at  once. 

As  Tarbox,  with  Patience  on  his  arm,  left  the  court 
house  and  its  crowd  behind  him,  he  exclaimed,  "By 
God,  that  was  a  great  speech  of  Bourke's  !  There 
never  has  been  a  summing  up  like  that  in  my  time 
before,  not  even  by  him.  But  he  's  the  smartest  man 
in  Westchester  County  !  Hanged  if  I  don't  think  he 's 
the  smartest  man  in  the  State  of  New  York.  He  '11  be 
in  the  United  States  Senate  yet." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    451 


XVIII 

AFTER  dinner  Patience  went  back  to  the  court  room 
to  remain  until  ten  o'clock,  at  which  time  the  jury,  if  it 
had  not  come  to  a  decision,  would  be  locked  up  for  the 
night.  She  sat  surrounded  by  her  counsel  and  the 
lawyers  that  had  taken  so  deep  an  interest  in  the  case. 
Bourke  sat  very  close  to  her,  and  once  or  twice  as  she 
met  his  eyes  she  forgot  the  terrible  moment  to  come. 
Few  people  were  in  the  court  house.  No  one  ex- 
pected a  verdict  that  night. 

It  was  exactly  at  half-past  nine  that  the  jury  filed 
solemnly  in.  Patience's  knees  jerked  suddenly  up- 
ward. She  lost  her  breath  for  a  moment.  Bourke 
leaned  over  her  and  took  her  hand,  regardless  of  the 
curious  people  surrounding  them. 

"Be  brave.  Be  brave,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "Now 
is  the  time  for  all  your  pride  and  disdain." 

When  she  was  ordered  to  stand  up  and  face  the  jury, 
she  did  so  with  an  air  so  collected  and  so  haughty  that 
even  Simms  murmured  :  "  By  Jove,  she  is  a  thorough- 
bred." 

There  was  a  moment  of  horrible  and  vibrating  silence, 
during  which  Patience's  brain  reiterated  hilariously: 
"Twelve  little  Jurymen  all  in  a  row.  Twelve  little 
heads  all  in  a  row."  Then  the  foreman  was  asked  for 
the  verdict.  He  cleared  his  throat,  and  without  mov- 
ing a  muscle  of  his  face,  remarked,  — 

"  Guilty." 

The  district  attorney  sat  down  suddenly  and  hid 
his  face  with  a  convulsive  hand.  Patience  resumed 


452    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

her  seat  with  a  mien  as  stolid  as  that  of  the  twelve 
jurors.  Bourke's  face  blanched,  but  he  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  demanded  that  the  jury  be  polled.  Each 
solemn  "  Yes,"  twelve  and  unhesitating,  sounded  like  a 
knell.  Then  Bourke  demanded  a  Stay,  which  was 
granted  by  the  impassive  judge,  and  Patience  was  led 
through  the  silent  crowd  from  the  court  room  to  her 
cell.  Tarbox  escorted  her  mutely,  his  face  turned 
away.  At  the  door  of  her  cell  he  attempted  to  speak, 
but  gave  it  up  and  retreated  hastily. 

Patience  threw  off  her  hat  and  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed.  The  verdict,  she  knew  now,  had  not  been 
a  surprise.  But  she  thought  little  of  the  verdict.  She 
was  waiting  for  something  else.  It  came  in  a  moment. 
She  heard  a  quick  impatient  step  on  the  ground  below, 
then  a  rapid  ascent  of  stair,  a  word  or  two  at  the  door, 
Tarbox's  retreating  step. 

Bourke  was  in  the  cell.  His  face  was  white,  but 
that  of  Patience  as  she  rose  and  confronted  him  was 
not. 

"  I  don't  care  !  "  she  said.  "  I  don't  care  !  I  be- 
lieve I  am  happier  than  any  woman  alive." 

The  red  sprang  to  his  face.  He  took  her  out- 
stretched hands  and  held  them  to  lips  and  eyes  for  a 
moment,  then  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her 
until  the  rest  of  the  world  lay  dull,  and  all  life  was  in 
that  quiet  cell. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    453 


XIX 

A  YEAR  later  they  took  her  to  Sing  Sing.  The  General 
Term  had  refused  her  a  new  trial,  the  Court  of  Appeals 
had  sustained  the  lower  court.  Bourke  had  won 
nothing  but  additional  glory. 

He  did  not  go  with  her  to  Sing  Sing.  She  saw  him 
alone  for  an  hour  before  Tarbox  came  to  take  her 
away.  Her  composure  was  greater  than  his.  He  was 
torn  with  horror  and  defeat,  and  his  surpassing  love 
for  the  woman.  Not  that  he  had  given  up  hope  by 
any  means,  nor  the  fight ;  but  he  knew  the  fearful  odds, 
and  he  cursed  the  law  which  he  had  outwitted  and 
played  with  so  often  and  so  brilliantly. 

"  I  wish  we  were  back  in  the  middle  ages,"  he  said 
savagely,  "  when  a  man  took  his  rights  and  regulated 
justice  by  brute  force.  We  are  not  half  men  now  that 
we  are  under  the  yoke  of  a  thing  that  operates  blindly, 
and  strikes  by  chance  where  it  should  strike,  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten.  Good  God  !  Good  God !  it  seems 
incredible  that  I  can  let  you  go,  that  I  shall  stand  by 
and  see  Tarbox  lead  you  away.  Think  of  the  combined 
intellect  of  the  world  and  the  centuries  having  done 
no  more  for  man  than  that.  I  must  stand  aside  and 
see  you  go  to  a  hideous  cell  in  the  Death  House  — 
O  my  God  !  " 

He  had  awakened  the  woman  down  to  the  depths ; 
to-day  he  called  to  life  the  maternal  instinct  in  her. 
She  put  her  arms  about  him  with  the  passionate 
strength  of  one  who  would  transmit  courage  and  hope 
through  physical  pressure. 


454    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Listen,"  she  said ;  "  I  don't  mind  one  cell  more 
than  another  —  and  I  know,  I  know,  that  you  will  save 
me.  I  feel  it.  I  am  not  going  to  die.  You  are  a 
man  of  genius.  Everybody  says  that  —  everybody  — 
I  know  that  you  will  have  an  inspiration  at  the  last 
minute.  And  I  have  been  happy,  happy,  happy ! 
Don't  forget  that  —  not  ever.  I  would  go  through 
twenty  times  what  I  have  suffered  in  all  my  life  for  this 
past  year.  Don't  you  think  I  can  live  on  that  for  a 
month  or  two?  Why,  I  can  feel  your  touch,  the 
pressure  of  your  arms  for  hours  after  you  leave  me. 
I  shall  be  with  you  every  minute  —  " 

He  threw  back  his  head,  shaking  it  with  a  brief 
violent  motion  characteristic  of  him. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "very  well;  it  is  not  for  me 
to  be  weak  when  you  are  strong.  Perhaps  it  is  because 
the  prize  is  so  great  that  the  fight  is  so  long  and  des- 
perate. Oh,  you  wonderful  woman  ! 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said  after  a  moment,  "  that  it  has  all 
been  as  perfect  to  you  as  to  me.  I  want  to  hear  you 
say  that,  but  I  know  it,  I  know  it." 

«Oh,-— I  — I  —  " 

Tarbox  came  and  took  her  away.  He  looked  as  if 
he  had  lost  home  and  friends  and  fortune,  and  did  not 
speak  from  White  Plains  to  Sing  Sing.  The  details  of 
the  trip  interested  her  less  than  such  details  are  sup- 
posed to  interest  the  condemned  that  look  their  last 
on  sky  and  land ;  her  head  ached,  and  the  glare  of  the 
Hudson  blinded  her;  but  as  the  train  neared  Sing 
Sing  she  opened  her  eyes  suddenly,  then  sat  forward 
with  a  note  of  admiration. 

The  river  was  covered  with  a  dense  rosy  mist  which 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    455 

half  obscured  the  opposite  shore,  giving  it  the  effect  of 
an  irregular  group  of  islands.  Above  was  a  calm  lake 
of  yellow  fire  surrounded  by  heavy  billows  of  boiling 
gold  ;  beyond,  storm  clouds,  growing  larger  and  darker. 
As  they  drove,  a  few  moments  later,  to  the  prison, 
the  great  grey  battlemented  pile  was  swimming  in  the 
same  rosy  glow.  Patience  murmured  satirically : 

"'The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls.'  " 

Tarbox  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  "  Oh,"  he 
said,  "  how  do  you  manage  it?  " 

"All  hope  is  not  gone,"  she  replied;  "there  is  still 
the  governor."  But  she  knew  how  slender  that  hope 
was.  The  governor  was  on  the  eve  of  re-election ;  pub- 
lic feeling  was  multiplied  against  her ;  the  "  Eye  "  was 
clamouring  for  her  life,  and  strutting  like  a  turkey  cock ; 
the  "  Eye  "  and  Tammany  Hall  were  one ;  the  governor 
was  the  creature  of  Tammany  Hall. 

The  warden  was  in  his  office.  He  greeted  her  with 
elaborate  politeness,  albeit  puffed  with  alcohol  and 
pride.  She  handed  him  what  valuables  she  had  not 
presented  to  Tarbox,  and  answered  his  questions  in  a 
manner  not  calculated  to  placate  his  Irish  dignity. 
Then  she  turned  to  say  good-bye  to  Tarbox,  but  he 
had  disappeared.  The  head-keeper,  a  big  kindly  man, 
who  pressed  her  arm  in  a  paternal  manner,  led  her 
down  long  echoing  corridors,  past  rows  and  tiers  of 
cells,  and  yards  full  of  Things  in  striped  garments,  and 
talked  to  her  in  the  manner  one  adopts  to  a  frightened 
child,  until  she  said  :  — 

"  I  am  not  going  to  have  hysterics  ;  nor  am  I  at  all 
sure  that  I  am  to  be  executed  —  but  please  don't 
imagine  that  I  don't  appreciate  your  kindness." 


456    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"Well,  I  like  that,"  he  said.  "To  tell  the  truth 
the  prospect  of  having  a  woman  here  has  half  scared 
me  out  of  my  wits.  But  if  you  won't  take  on,  I  '11  do 
everything  I  can  to  make  you  comfortable.  We  Ve 
put  a  woman  servant  in  there  to  wait  on  you.  I  hope 
myself  it  won't  be  for  long.  The  evidence  is  pretty 
black,  but  some  of  us  has  our  opinion  all  the  same." 

"  Must  I  go  into  the  Death  House  ?  I  think  I 
should  n't  mind  it  so  much  if  they  'd  put  me  anywhere 
else." 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  must,  ma'am.  That 's  the  custom 
in  these  parts."  He  opened  a  door  with  a  huge  key, 
and  Patience  did  not  need  to  be  told  that  she  was 
in  the  famous  Death  House. 

A  long  corridor  with  a  high  window  at  either  end ; 
on  one  side  a  row  of  cells  separated  from  the  main 
corridor  by  an  iron  fence  sufficiently  removed  from  the 
cells  to  make  space  for  a  narrow  promenade.  Where 
the  middle  cell  should  have  been  was  a  dark  arched 
stone  passage  terminated  by  a  stout  oaken  door. 
Patience  knew  that  it  led  to  the  execution  room.  Two 
guards  walked  up  and  down  the  corridor.  At  the  end, 
a  sullen-looking  woman  stood  over  a  stove,  making  tea. 

"  You  Ve  got  the  house  all  to  yourself,"  said  the 
keeper,  with  an  attempt  at  jocularity.  "  If  there  'd 
been  any  men  here  I  guess  you  'd  have  been  sent  to 
Dannemora,  but  it 's  always  Sing  Sing  for  the  swells, 
when  it 's  possible,  you  know." 

He  opened  the  gate  of  the  iron  fence  and  led  her 
down  to  the  cell  at  the  extreme  end.  It  was  large  and 
well  lighted,  but  very  different  from  the  cell  at  White 
Plains. 

"  Are  you  going  to  lock  me  in?  "  she  asked. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    457 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  must.  If  everything  ain't  com- 
fortable, just  let  me  know." 

The  key  grated  in  the  lock.  The  head-keeper 
with  an  encouraging  smile  walked  away.  Patience 
crouched  in  a  corner,  for  the  first  time  fully  realising 
the  awfulness  of  her  position,  her  imagination  leaping 
to  the  room  beyond  the  passage.  What  did  it  look 
like,  that  horrible  chair  ?  How  long  —  how  long  — 
the  hideously  practical  details  of  electric  execution  — 
the  awful  mystery  of  it  —  the  new  death  to  which  imag- 
ination had  not  yet  become  accustomed  — 

There  was  no  sound  but  the  monotonous  pacing  of 
the  death  watch.  The  world  beyond  those  stone 
walls  might  have  sprung  away  into  space,  leaving  the 
great  beautiful  prison  alone  on  a  whirling  fragment. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  clenched  her  hands. 
"  I  '11  not  go  mad  and  make  an  everlasting  fool  of 
myself,"  she  thought.  "  If  I  have  to  die,  I  '11  die  with 
my  head  up  and  my  eyes  dry.  If  I  have  the  blood  of 
the  aristocrat  in  me  I  '11  prove  it  then,  not  die  like  a 
flabby  woman  of  the  people.  The  people  !  O  God, 
how  I  hate  the  people  !  " 


XX 

A  GREAT  petition  was  sent  to  the  governor.  It  was 
signed  uniformly  by  men  and  women  of  the  upper 
class. 

It  is  not  the  aristocrats  that  do  the  electing  in  the 
United  States.  The  lower  classes  were  against  her  to  a 
man.  Her  personality  enraged  them  ;  her  unreligion, 
her  disdainful  bearing,  her  intellect,  her  position, 
antagonised  the  superstitious  and  ambitious  masses 


45 8    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

more  than  her  crime.  Inevitable  result :  the  governor 
refused  to  pardon. 

Honora  returned  to  Peele  Manor  from  town  in  April. 
Bourke's  attempts  to  see  her  were  frustrated  by  a  body- 
guard of  servants.  He  took  up  his  residence  in  the 
little  village  adjoining  the  grounds.  He  hardly  knew 
what  he  hoped.  But  Honora  Mairs  was  the  last  and 
only  resource,  and  he  could  not  keep  away  from  her 
vicinity.  He  did  not  go  to  Sing  Sing.  It  had  been 
agreed  between  himself  and  Patience  that  he  should 
stay  away :  they  had  no  desire  to  communicate  through 
iron  bars. 

The  execution  was  set  for  the  seventh  of  May.  On 
the  evening  of  the  sixth,  while  walking  down  the  single 
street  of  the  village  Bourke  came  face  to  face  with  the 
new  priest  of  the  district. 

"Tim  Connor !"  he  exclaimed,  forgetting  for  the 
moment,  in  the  sudden  retrospect  which  this  man's  face 
unrolled,  the  horror  that  held  him. 

"  Well,  it 's  me,  sure  enough,  Garan,  and  I  Ve  been 
hunting  for  you  these  two  days.  I  heard  you  were  here, 
but  faith,  I  Ve  been  busy  !  —  not  to  say  I  Ve  been  away 
for  two  weeks." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here? " 

"  Six  months,  come  June,  it  is  since  I  left  old  Ire- 
land ;  and  I  'm  wanting  to  tell  you  that  the  creek  we 
used  to  wade  in  is  as  tempting  to  the  boys  as  ever, 
and  that  the  bog  you  pulled  me  out  of  has  moved  on  a 
mile  and  more.  Twenty  times  I  Ve  been  for  going 
across  the  country  to  call  on  you  and  have  a  good  grip 
of  the  hand,  and  to  bless  you  again  for  letting  me  live 
to  do  good  work  ;  but  I  was  caught  in  a  net  here  —  But 
what's  the  matter  —  Are  you  ill?  —  Oh,  sure!  sure! 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    459 

This  terrible  business !  I  remember !  Poor  young 
thing!" 

He  laid  his  arm  about  the  shoulders  of  the  other  man 
and  guided  him  to  his  house.  There,  in  his  bare  little 
study,  he  brewed  an  Irish  toddy,  and  the  two  men  drank 
without  a  spoken  toast  to  the  old  times  when  they  had 
punched  each  other's  head,  fought  each  other's  battles, 
and  shared  each  other's  joys,  two  affectionate  rollicking 
mischievous  Irish  lads. 

The  priest  spoke  finally. 

"Nothing  else  is  talked  of  here  in  the  village,"  he 
said  ;  "  but  you  don't  hear  a  word  of  it  mentioned  over 
at  the  house." 

"What  house?" 

"  Peele  Manor,  to  be  sure." 

"  Do  you  go  there?  " 

"  Occasionally  —  to  dine ;  or  to  talk  with  Miss  Mairs. 
We  are  amiable  friends,  although  she  does  n't  confess 
to  me." 

Bourke  raised  his  head  slowly.  Something  seemed 
to  swirl  through  his  heavy  heart. 

"Is  Honora  Mairs  a  Catholic?  "  he  asked. 

"  She  is  indeed,  and,  like  all  converts,  full  to  the  brim 
and  running  over." 

Bourke  leaned  forward,  his  hand  clinching  about  his 
chin,  his  elbow  pressing  his  knee  with  such  force  that 
his  arm  vibrated.  He  had  been  raised  a  Catholic  —  he 
knew  its  grip.  His  mind  was  trained  to  grasp  oppor- 
tunities on  the  moment,  to  work  with  the  nervous  yet 
mathematical  rapidity  of  electric  currents.  And  like 
all  great  lawyers  he  was  a  great  actor. 

"  Tim,"  he  said  meditatively,  "  I  'm  feeling  terribly 
bad  over  that  poor  girl  I  could  n't  save." 


460    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  Sure  and  I  should  think  you  would,  Garan.  My 
heart 's  breaking  for  her  myself." 

" Did  you  read  the  trial,  Tim? " 

"  No,  faith,  I  did  n't.  I  Ve  been  too  busy  with  these 
godless  folk.  Sure  they  get  away  from  us  priests  when 
they  get  into  America.  It 's  only  one  more  drop  to 
hell." 

"  You  're  right,  Tim,  you  're  right.  You  always  saw 
things  at  a  glance.  But  I  Ve  got  a  great  work  for  you 
to  do,  —  a  great  work  for  you  and  for  the  Church." 

"You  have,  Garan?  You  have?  Out  with  it,  my 
boy." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  time  when  Paddy  Flannagan 
was  accused  of  murdering  his  old  grandmother  for  the 
sake  of  the  money  in  her  stocking?  "  continued  Bourke, 
in  the  same  half  absent  tone,  and  lapsing  gradually  into 
brogue.  "  He  was  convicted,  you  know,  and  the  whole 
town  was  set  on  him,  and  we  two  boys  were  the  worst 
of  the  lot.  Do  you  remember  how  we  used  to  hoot 
under  his  jail  window  at  night?  And  then,  quite  by 
accident,  at  the  last  minute,  two  days  before  he  was 
going  to  be  hanged,  you  discovered  the  man  that  had 
committed  the  murder,  and  you  ran  as  fast  as  your  legs 
could  carry  you  to  save  Paddy,  shouting  all  the  way,  — 
and  that  it  was  the  happiest  day  of  your  life  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes  ! "  exclaimed  the  priest,  his  face  aglow. 
Bourke  had  thrown  himself  back  in  his  chair,  his  eyes 
dwelling  on  his  old  friend  with  a  smile  of  affectionate 
satisfaction. 

"  It 's  a  grand  thing  to  save  a  human  life,  is  n't  it, 
Tim?" 

"  It  is,  indeed ;  the  grandest,  next  to  saving  an  im- 
mortal soul." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    461 

"  I  'm  going  to  give  you  a  chance  to  do  both,  —  the 
soul  of  one  woman  and  the  life  of  another." 

"Garan,  Garan,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"  Just  let  me  tell  you  a  few  things  first,  a  few  things 
you  don't  know  already."  He  gave  a  concise  but 
picturesque  and  thrilling  account  of  Patience's  life  and 
of  her  trial.  As  he  repeated  Honora's  testimony,  the 
priest,  who  had  followed  his  recital  with  profound  in- 
terest, leaned  forward  with  sombre  brows. 

"  That  woman  lied,"  concluded  Bourke,  abruptly. 

"  I  'm  afraid  so.     I  'm  afraid  so." 

"  And  if  she  does  n't  open  her  accursed  perjured  lips 
between  now  and  to-morrow  morning  at  eleven  o'clock, 
that  woman  up  there  —  "  he  caught  the  priest's  shoul- 
ders suddenly,  his  face  contracting  with  agony  —  "  the 
woman  I  love,  Tim,  will  be  murdered.  My  God,  man, 
don't  you  see  what  you  've  got  to  do?  " 


XXI 

HONORA  was  lying  on  a  couch  in  her  celestial  bedroom. 
No  incense  burned.  The  screen  was  folded  closely 
about  the  altar.  The  windows  were  open.  The  pure 
air  of  spring,  the  peaceful  sounds  of  night,  —  disturbed 
now  and  again  by  the  hideous  shriek  of  an  engine,  —  the 
delicate  perfume  of  flowers,  played  upon  her  irritated 
senses.  She  held  a  bottle  of  smelling  salts  in  her 
hand.  On  the  table  beside  her  was  a  jolly  looking 
bottle  of  Benedictine. 

There  was   a  tap  at  the   door.     Honora  answered 
wearily.     A  maid  entered. 


462    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"  It 's  Father  Connor,  miss,  and  he  wants  to  see  you 
particular." 

"  Tell  him  I  cannot  see  him  —  no,  tell  him  to  come 
up." 

She  rose  hurriedly  and  smoothed  her  hair.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Peele  had  gone  South.  She  was  alone  in  the 
house,  and  welcomed  the  brief  distraction  of  the  priest's 
visit. 

"You  will  pardon  me  for  asking  you  to  come  up 
here,"  she  said  as  he  entered.  "  But  I  am  in  disha- 
bille, and  I  did  not  want  to  keep  you  waiting.  How 
kind  of  you  to  come  !  " 

"  Sure  it  is  always  a  pleasure  to  see  you  anywhere, 
Miss  Mairs,"  he  said,  taking  the  seat  she  indicated. 
"What  should  I  do  without  you  in  this  godless  place?  " 

Several  candles  burned.  The  moonlight  wandered 
in,  making  a  ghastly  combination.  Honora  lay  back 
in  her  chair,  looking  very  pale  and  beautiful.  The 
priest's  profile  was  toward  her  for  a  moment  after  he 
ceased  speaking,  a  strong  lean  determined  profile. 
She  watched  it  warily.  But  he  turned  suddenly  to  her 
and  smiled,  and  told  her  an  absurd  episode  of  one  of 
his  village  delinquents. 

"  Faith,  Miss  Mairs,"  he  concluded,  "  you  Ve  got  to 
help  me.  They  're  too  much  for  one  poor  priest.  I  'm 
not  one  to  flatter,  but  your  face  would  be  enough  to 
make  a  sinner  think  of  heaven  —  sure  it 's  the  face  of 
an  angel !  Between  the  two  of  us  and  with  the  Grace 
of  God  we  '11  reform  the  village  and  drive  the  dirty 
politicians  into  the  Church  or  out  of  the  country." 

Honora  smiled  radiantly,  and  held  out  her  hand. 
/'  I  will  work  with  you,"  she  said.  "  I  intend  to  de- 
vote my  life  to  the  Church." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    463 

He  held  her  hand  closely,  in  a  strong  masculine  clasp. 

"  I  believed  it  of  you.  But  why  don't  you  go  to 
confession,  my  child?  " 

The  muscles  under  Honora's  fair  skin  contracted 
briefly,  and  she  attempted  to  withdraw  her  hand ;  but 
the  priest  held  it  closely. 

"  I  shall  go  to  you  next  week." 

"To-night,"  he  said  with  soft  insistence;  "to-night. 
Do  you  know  it  was  that  brought  me  here  to-night? 
I  've  been  knowing  ever  since  I  came  that  something 
troubled  you — was  eating  your  heart  out — but  I 
did  n't  like  to  speak.  I  thought  every  day  you  would 
come  to  me,  and  I  did  n't  like  to  intrude.  But  to- 
night I  said, '  I  will ! '  I  could  n't  get  up  my  courage 
when  I  first  came  in ;  but  I  'm  glad  I  Ve  spoken,  for  I 
know  you  '11  be  after  confessing  now.  Poor  girl !  But 
remember,  dear  child,  the  comfort  and  consolation  our 
blessed  Church  has  for  every  sinner.  Come." 

Honora  turned  her  face  away,  and  shook  her  head. 

The  priest  put  out  a  long  arm,  and  grasping  the  screen 
drew  it  away  from  the  altar.  Then  he  leaned  forward, 
and  laying  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  drew  her  slowly 
forward  and  pressed  her  to  her  knees.  He  laid  his 
hand  on  her  head. 

"  Confess,"  he  said,  solemnly. 

And  Honora  suddenly  burst  into  wild  sobbing,  and 
confessed  that  Beverly  Peele  had  dropped  his  own 
morphine  that  night,  that  his  shaking  hand  had  refused 
to  obey  his  will,  and  that,  blind  with  pain,  he  had  poured 
a  fourth  of  the  contents  into  the  glass,  mixed  it  with 
water,  and  gulped  it  down ;  that  she  had  not  gone  to 
his  assistance  because  she  wished  him  to  die,  and  the 
responsibility  to  fall  upon  his  wife. 


464    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

Then  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  smote  her  hands 
together. 

"  I  did  not  intend  to  confess  until  all  was  over,  but 
—  I  —  Oh  —  it  has  been  horrible  here  alone  these  two 
days  —  but  I  would  not  yield  to  superstition  and  go 
away  —  and  you  found  me  in  a  weak  moment." 

She  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  talking  the  more 
rapidly,  the  more  unreservedly,  as  the  priest  made  no 
comment.  And  after  all  the  years  of  immobility  it  was 
joy  to  speak  out  everything  in  her  crowded  heart  and 
brain. 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  a  monster,  I  am  not  abnormal,  I  am 
merely  a  result.  It  began  -*-  when  did  it  begin  ?  I  was 
a  child  when  I  came  here — I  remember  little  that 
happened  before  —  it  has  always  been  the  rdk  of  the 
poor  cousin,  I  remember  no  other  —  no  other  !  never  ! 
never  !  I  had  to  learn  patience  at  an  age  when  other 
children  are  clamouring  for  their  little  desires.  I  had 
to  learn  humility  when  other  children  —  while  I  watched 
my  cousins  take  all  the  goods  and  joys  of  childhood 
as  their  divine  right.  While  their  little  world  was  at 
their  feet  I  was  learning  to  cringe  and  watch  and  wait 
and  smile  upon  people  I  hated,  and  listen  to  people 
that  bored  me  to  death,  and  suffer  vicariously  for  all 
the  shortcomings  of  the  Peele  family  when  my  aunt  was 
in  one  of  her  cold  rages.  It  was  early  that  I  learned 
the  lesson  that  if  I  would  occupy  a  supportable  position 
in  life  I  must  'work'  people;  I  must  cultivate  will  and 
tact  —  how  I  hate  the  loathsome  word  —  and  study  the 
natures  of  those  about  me,  and  play  upon  them ;  that 
I  must  acquire  absolute  self  repression,  be  a  sort  of 
automaton,  that,  being  once  wound  up  properly,  never 
makes  a  false  move.  I  believe  that  was  one  thing  which 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    465 

drove  me  to  the  Catholic  Church,  —  the  unspeakable 
relief  that  I  should  find  in  confession,  —  that  and  one 
other  thing —  " 

She  paused  abruptly,  and  pressed  her  hands  to  her 
face,  to  which  the  blood  had  sprung. 

"I  loved  Beverly  Peele,"  she  continued  violently. 
"  I  do  not  know  when  it  began ;  when  I  was  old 
enough  to  fall  in  love,  I  suppose,  and  that  is  young 
enough  with  a  woman.  When  we  were  children  we 
used  to  play  at  being  married.  Even  after  he  was 
grown  and  was  rather  wild,  he  used  to  come  back  to  me 
in  the  summer  time  and  tell  me  that  he  cared  for  no 
one  else.  I  knew  all  his  faults,  his  weaknesses,  his 
limitations,  mental  and  moral  and  spiritual,  —  none 
better.  But  I  loved  him.  I  worshipped  him.  He 
was  not  even  a  companion  to  me,  for  I  was  always 
intellectually  ambitious.  Not  a  taste  but  music  did  we 
have  in  common.  I  have  seen  him  in  raging  tempers 
that  would  make  any  other  woman  despise  him  —  when 
he  seemed  an  animal,  a  savage.  But  nothing  made  any 
difference  to  me.  A  woman  loves  or  she  does  not  love 
—  that  is  the  beginning  and  the  end.  There  is  no  more 
relation  between  cause  and  effect  in  an  infatuated 
woman's  mind  than  —  Oh,  well,  I  can't  be  finding 
similes. 

"One  night  he  came  in  here.  The  next  night  I 
kissed  the  pillow  his  head  would  lie  on.  For  a  year  I 
was  happy ;  for  another  I  alternated  between  joy  and 
anguish,  jealousy  and  peace,  despair  and  hope.  Then 
a  year  of  misery,  during  which  he  brutally  cast  me  off. 
It  was  that  which  drove  me  to  the  Catholic  Church  — 
not  only  the  peace  it  promised,  but  the  knowledge  that 
with  baptism  my  sin  would  be  washed  away — for  when 
30 


466    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

happiness  went  remorse  began.  I  have  not  a  brain  of 
iron,  like  that  woman  he  married.  She  could  snap  her 
past  in  two  and  fling  it  behind  her.  She  could  snap 
her  fingers  at  moral  laws,  if  it  suited  her  purpose,  and 
know  no  regret,  provided  she  had  had  nothing  to  regret 
meanwhile.  That  was  one  reason  why  I  hated  her. 

"  Oh,  how  I  hated  her  !  How  I  hated  her  !  Bev- 
erly never  had  any  reserve,  and  he  made  love  to  her 
before  my  eyes.  He  was  infatuated.  His  affection  for 
me  was  an  incidental  fancy  compared  to  his  mad  pas- 
sion for  that  woman.  And  month  after  month  !  Month 
after  month  !  And  I  loved  him  still ! 

"  I  never  dared  say  to  myself  that  when  the  time 
came  I  should  have  vengeance,  for  such  a  resolution  I 
should  be  obliged  to  confess;  and  the  priest  would 
make  me  promise  to  thrust  it  out,  or  refuse  me  absolu- 
tion. But  down  in  my  heart  I  knew  that  when  the 
hour  came  the  temptation  would  conquer.  It  came 
first  when  I  let  him  drink  the  morphine.  And  when  I 
saw  her  in  court,  when  her  lover  gave  me  that  sudden 
suggestion,  when  I  knew  that  I  could  send  her  to  that 
horrible  chair  —  "  She  threw  out  her  arms  and  laughed 
hysterically,  "  O  God,  I  was  almost  happy  again." 

The  priest  rose  and  stood  before  her.  There  were 
tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Poor  woman  !  "  he  said.     "  Poor  woman  !  " 

Honora's  face  convulsed,  but  she  shut  her  lips  reso- 
lutely and  tapped  the  floor  with  her  foot. 

"  There  is  pardon  and  peace  in  the  Church,"  he  con- 
tinued softly ;  "  and  not  only  for  the  sake  of  that  poor 
girl  at  Sing  Sing,  battling  to-night  with  horror  and  ter- 
ror, sleepless,  listening  to  the  solemn  tramp  of  the 
death  watch,  counting  the  hours  that  are  marching  her 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    467 

to  that  hideous  death,  but  for  the  future  peace  of 
your  own  soul,  speak  out  and  save  her.  Think  of  the 
years  of  torment,  of  remorse,  when  you  will  not  have 
the  excitement  of  the  present,  the  pressure  of  your 
wrongs  to  sustain  you.  Speak  out,  and  I  will  give  you 
absolution,  and  your  soul  shall  know  peace." 

But  Honora  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed. 

"No!  No!"  she  said.  "I  am  not  so  weak  as 
that.  I  have  no  intention  of  going  to  pieces  at  the  last 
moment.  It  is  only  her  death  that  will  give  me 
peace." 

He  bent  his  long  body  backward,  drawing  himself  up 
to  his  full  imposing  height. 

"  And  have  you  thought  of  what  will  be  the  penalty?  " 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  an  intonation  that  was 
almost  a  chant. 

She  shuddered,  but  dragged  her  eyes  away. 

"  I  don't  care  !  "  she  said  passionately.  "  I  don't 
care  ! " 

"  You  are  sure?  "  he  said,  in  the  same  voice. 

She  drew  two  short  breaths.  "  Oh,  go  away  and 
leave  me,"  she  said.  "Why  did  you  come  here?  I 
did  not  intend  to  confess  until  all  was  over." 

"And  you  expected  absolution?  " 

"I  would  have  done  any  penance.  I  would  have 
burnt  my  flesh  with  red-hot  irons  —  " 

He  gave  a  short,  scornful  laugh. 

"  The  Church  wants  no  such  makeshift  penances,"  he 
said  passionately.  "  It  has  no  use  for  the  sinner  that 
commits  deliberate  crime  to-day  and  comes  cringing 
and  triumphant  to  the  confessional  to-morrow.  We 
have  no  use  for  such  as  you,"  he  suddenly  shouted, 
flinging  out  his  arm  and  pointing  his  index  finger  at 


468     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

her.  "  You  are  a  disgrace  to  the  Church,  a  pollution ; 
you  are  the  lips  of  the  leper  upon  the  pure  body  of  a 
Saint.  We  have  no  place  for  such  as  you.  We  have 
only  one  method  by  which  to  deal  with  you  and  such 
as  you  —  "  He  curved  his  body,  and  his  voice  fell  to 
a  hollow  monotone  :  "  Ex-commu-nica-tion." 

The  woman  stared  at  him  with  pale  distended  eyes, 
no  breath  issuing  from  her  dry  lips,  then  sank  to  the 
floor,  a  miserable,  collapsed,  quivering  heap.  The 
priest  went  to  the  window  and  called  to  a  man  who 
stood  on  the  walk  below. 


XXII 

BOURKE  was  pacing  up  and  down  among  the  trees,  his 
eyes  seldom  absent  from  the  man  standing  motionless 
in  front  of  the  house,  or  from  the  light  in  Honora 
Mairs'  window.  He  struck  a  match  every  few  mo- 
ments and  looked  at  his  watch.  He  lit  a  cigar,  then 
found  himself  biting  rapidly  along  its  length  with  vicious 
energy.  He  flung  it  away  and  lit  another,  puffed  at  it 
violently,  then  let  it  fall  to  the  ground  as  he  pressed  his 
hands  suddenly  to  his  eyes,  shutting  out  the  picture  of 
Patience  in  her  cell. 

All  the  agony  and  doubt  and  despair  of  the  past  year 
were  crowded  into  this  hour.  Would  the  priest  succeed  ? 
Was  he  clever  enough  to  outwit  a  clever  and  implaca- 
ble woman?  If  he  had  only  caught  her  in  a  moment 
of  weakness.  But  was  there  any  weakness  in  that 
organisation  of  knit  and  tempered  steel  ?  "  He  '11 
blarney  her,"  he  thought,  with  sudden  hope,  — "  but 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    469 

bah !  you  can't  blarney  a  snake.  That  will  go  so  far 
with  her  and  no'  farther.  Only  acting  can  save  us.  If 
he  can  act  well  enough  to  fill  the  stage  on  which  this 
terrible  tragedy  is  set,  and  conquer  that  woman's  imagi- 
nation, he  can  save  my  poor  girl,  but  not  otherwise." 

His  hands  clutched  the  bushes  as  he  passed.  He 
kicked  the  gravel  from  his  feet.  He  cursed  aloud,  not 
knowing  what  he  was  saying.  He  felt  an  intolerable 
thirst;  his  eyeballs  burned;  his  heart  hammered 
spasmodically. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  twelve  o'clock. 
His  spinning  brain  conceived  the  wild  project  of  forc- 
ing himself  up  to  that  lighted  room  at  the  corner  of  the 
house  and  putting  the  woman  to  the  torture.  And  at 
that  moment  he  saw  the  priest  lean  out  of  the  window 
and  speak  to  the  notary  public,  who  immediately 
entered  the  house. 

A  half  hour  later  the  priest  came  out  of  the  front 
door  and  toward  him.  He  held  a  paper  in  his  hand. 

Bourke  was  waiting  at  the  door.  He  took  the  affi- 
davit from  the  priest,  glanced  over  it,  and  thrust  it  into 
his  pocket. 

"  Come,"  he  said.  "  I  '11  get  one  of  the  men  here 
to  hitch  up  a  team  and  drive  us  to  the  One  Hundred 
and  Twenty-fifth  Street  station.  There  we  '11  take  the 
train  for  Forty- second  Street,  and  at  the  Grand  Central 
the  train  for  Albany.  No  south  bound  local  will  pass 
here  for  an  hour.  I  happen  to  know  that  the  governor 
is  in  Albany  to-night  attending  a  banquet." 


470    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 


XXIII 

PATIENCE  had  given  up  hope  at  last.  Its  death  had 
been  accompanied  by  wonder  rather  than  by  despair. 
Her  remarkable  experience  with  Bourke  had  led  her  to 
idealise  him  even  beyond  the  habit  of  woman,  and  her 
faith  in  his  ability  to  save  her  had  been  absolute.  Nev- 
ertheless, woman  like,  she  wove  elaborate  excuses  for 
him,  and  loved  him  none  the  less. 

The  day  had  dragged  itself  into  twenty  years.  The 
chaplain  had  called  and  been  dismissed.  The  war- 
den had  visited  her  and  uttered  the  conventional 
words  of  sympathy,  to  which  Patience  had  listened 
without  expression,  loathing  the  coarse  ungrammatical 
brute.  The  head-keeper  she  liked,  for  she  was  the 
first  to  recognise  true  sympathy  and  nobility  within 
whatever  bark.  Miss  Beale  had  come  and  wept  and 
kissed  her  hands  through  the  bars. 

"  Patience  !  Patience  !  "  she  sobbed.  "  If  it  could 
only  be  said  that  you  died  like  a  Christian ! " 

"  It  can  be  said  that  I  died  like  an  American  gentle- 
woman of  the  nineteenth  century,"  replied  Patience. 
"  I  am  quite  satisfied  to  know  that  they  will  be  obliged 
to  say  that." 

Miss  Beale  shook  her  head  vigorously.  "You  will 
fail  when  the  time  comes,"  she  said.  "  Only  the  Lord 
can  sustain  you.  Please,  Patience,  let  me  pray  with 
you." 

"  Please  let  me  die  in  peace,"  said  Patience,  wearily, 
"and  consistently.  I  shall  not  make  a  spectacle  of 
myself.  Don't  worry." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    471 

After  Miss  Bcale  had  gone  the  prison  barber  came 
and  shaved  a  bald  spot  on  the  back  of  her  head.  She 
kept  her  face  in  the  shadow,  her  teeth  set,  her  skin 
thrilling  with  horror. 

She  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  bed  until  midnight.  In 
the  past  two  months,  despite  her  faith  in  Bourke,  she 
had  deliberately  allowed  her  mind  to  dwell  upon  the 
execution  until  fear  had  worn  blunt.  She  was  con- 
scious of  none  to-night.  Moreover,  she  had  the  poise  of 
one  that  has  lived  close  to  the  great  mysteries  of  life. 
Were  she  free  she  might  have  a  lifetime  of  happiness 
with  Bourke,  but  in  degree  there  were  many  hours  of 
the  past  year  that  in  mortal  limitations  could  never 
be  surpassed.  The  people  had  won  their  fight,  but 
she  felt  that  she  had  cheated  them  at  every  other  point. 
For,  after  all,  happiness  is  of  kind,  not  of  quantity. 
They  could  strike  from  her  many  years  of  life,  but  had 
she  not  lived  ?  And  a  few  years  more  or  less  —  what 
mattered  it?  One  must  die  at  the  last.  She  had 
realised  an  ideal.  She  had  known  love  in  its  profound- 
est  meaning,  in  its  most  delicate  vibrations.  A  thou- 
sand years  could  give  her  no  more  than  that. 

Suddenly  she  lifted  her  head.  The  rain  was  dashing 
against  her  high  window  and  against  the  windows  of  the 
corridor.  She  flushed  and  trembled  and  held  her 
breath  expectantly.  In  a  moment  she  lay  along  the 
bed,  and  in  a  moment  more  forgot  her  evil  state. 
Memories  without  form  trooped  through  her  brain : 
snatches  and  flashes  of  childhood  and  adolescence, 
glimmers  of  dawn,  and  stirrings  of  deeps,  vistas  of 
enchanted  future,  the  rising  and  receding,  rising  and 


472     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

receding  of  Mystery,  the  vague  pleasurable  loneliness 

—  the  protest  of  separateness. 

Then  she  pressed  her  face  into  the  pillows,  weeping 
wildly  that  she  should  see  Bourke  no  more.  The  rain 
gave  him  to  her  in  terrible  mockery.  Every  part  of 
her  demanded  him.  She  cared  nothing  for  the  mor- 
row; she  had  thought  of  110  to-morrows  when  with 
him.  Morrows  were  naught,  for  there  was  always  the 
last ;  but  the  present  are  always  there  to  fulfil  or  tor- 
ment. She  shuddered  once.  The  rain  had  given  her 
back  the  power  to  long  and  dream;  and  to  longing 
and  dreaming  there  could  be  no  fulfilment,  not  in  this 
world,  now  nor  ever. 

She  beat  her  clenched  hand  against  the  bed,  not 
in  fear,  but  in  passionate  resentment  that  she  with 
her  magnificent  endowment  for  happiness  should  be 
snuffed  out  in  her  youth,  and  that  there  was  no  power 
on  earth  to  assuage  her  lover's  agony.  She  wondered 
where  he  was,  what  he  was  doing.  She  knew  that 
there  was  no  sleep  for  him. 

Her  philosophy  deserted  her,  as  philosophy  will 
when  the  sun  is  under  the  horizon.  She  ceased  to  be 
satisfied  with  what  had  been;  the  great  love  in  her 
soul  cried  out  and  demanded  its  eternal  rights.  And 
her  fainting  courage  demanded  the  man.  .  .  . 

Her  thoughts  suddenly  took  a  whimsical  turn.  What 
should  she  be  like  in  eternity  shorn  of  her  stronger 
part  ?  —  for  assuredly  in  her  case  the  man  and  the  woman 
were  one.  Was  space  full  of  those  incomplete  shapes  ? 

—  roaming — roaming  —  for  what  ? — and  whither  ?   She 
recalled  a  painting  of  Vedder's  called  "  Identity  "  and 
Aldrich's  verses  beneath  :  — 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    473 

"  Somewhere,  in  desolate,  wind-swept  space, 

In  Twilight  land,  in  No-man's  land, 
Two  wandering  shapes  met  face  to  face, 
And  bade  each  other  stand. 


" '  And  who  are  you  ? '  cried  one,  agape, 

Shuddering  in  the  gloaming  light, 
*  I  know  not,'  said  the  second  shape, 
4 1  only  died  last  night.'  " 

The  picture  had  fascinated  her  profoundly  until  she 
had  suddenly  noticed  that  one  of  the  shapes  looked  as 
if  she  had  left  her  teeth  on  her  death-bed.  She  laughed 
aloud  suddenly.  .  .  . 

For  the  first  time  she  felt  curious  about  the  hereafter. 
Poetry  had  demonstrated  to  her  that  hereafter  of  some 
sort  there  must  be  :  the  poet  sees  only  the  soul  of  his 
creations,  makes  the  soul  talk  as  it  would  if  untram- 
melled of  flesh,  and  in  unconscious  forecast  of  its  free- 
dom. Browning,  alone,  would  have  taught  her  this. 
His  greater  poems  were  those  of  another  and  loftier 
world.  No  wonder  poets  were  a  mad  unhappy  race 
with  their  brief  awakenings  of  the  cosmic  sense,  their 
long  contemplations  of  what  should  be,  in  awful  con- 
trast to  what  is.  ... 

Patience  suddenly  turned  from  the  thoughts  of  the 
hereafter  in  shuddering  horror.  Then,  as  now,  she 
should  be  alone.  Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well,  if  she 
were  to  look  like  that  shape.  .  .  .  But  she  should 
know  soon  enough  ! 

Whimsies  deserted  her  as  abruptly  as  they  had  come. 
She  realised  with  terrible  vividness  all  that  she  was 
leaving,  the  sweetness  of  it,  the  beauty  of  it  —  and  the 
awful  part  allotted  to  the  man. 


474    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

She  had  imagined  that  in  her  last  night  on  earth  —  if 
it  came  to  that  —  her  mind  would  dwell  on  the  great 
problems  of  life ;  but  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 


XXIV 

BOURKE  and  the  priest  arrived  in  Albany  at  two  minutes 
past  eight  in  the  morning.  A  hack  carried  them  to  the 
governor's  house  in  less  than  ten  minutes. 

Bourke's  ring  was  answered  immediately.  He  had 
his  card  ready,  also  that  of  the  priest. 

"Take  these  to  the  governor/'  he  said  to  the  butler. 
"We  must  see  him  at  once." 

"The  governor  took  the  8.13  express  for  New 
York." 

Bourke  uttered  an  oath  which  the  priest  did  not 
rebuke. 

"  Did  he  leave  an  answer  to  a  telegram  he  received 
between  two  and  five  this  morning?" 

"  No,  sir ;  no  telegrams  are  ever  sent  here  —  by  spe- 
cial orders,  sir.  They  are  all  sent  to  the  State  House." 

Bourke's  skin  turned  grey;  his  eyes  dulle'd  like 
those  of  a  dying  man.  But  only  for  a  moment.  His 
brain  worked  with  its  customary  rapidity. 

"  Come,"  he  said  to  the  priest.  "  There  is  only  one 
thing  to  do." 

To  the  hackman  he  said :  "Twenty  dollars  if  you 
get  to  the  station  in  five  minutes." 

He  and  the  priest  jumped  into  the  hack.  The 
driver  lashed  the  horses.  They  dashed  down  the  steep 
hills  of  Albany.  Two  policemen  rushed  after  them, 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    475 

shouting  angrily;  but  the  horses  galloped  the  faster, 
the  driver  bounding  on  his  seat.  People  darted  shriek- 
ing out  of  their  way.  Other  teams  pulled  hastily  aside, 
oaths  flying. 

They  reached  the  station  in  exactly  four  minutes  and 
a  half.  Bourke  had  little  money  with  him,  but  he  was 
well  known,  and  known  to  be  wealthy.  In  less  than 
five  minutes  the  superintendent,  in  regard  for  a  check 
for  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  had  ordered  out  the 
fastest  engine  in  the  shop.  In  ten  minutes  more  it  was 
ready,  and  the  message  had  flashed  along  the  line  to 
make  way  for  "45." 

By  this  time  every  man  in  the  yard  was  surging  about 
the  engine  in  excited  sympathy.  As  the  engineer  gave 
the  word  and  Bourke  and  the  priest  climbed  in,  the 
men  cheered  lustily.  Bourke  raised  his  hat.  Father 
Connor  waved  them  his  blessing.  The  engine  sprang 
down  the  road  in  pursuit  of  the  New  York  express. 

Despite  the  flying  moments,  the  horror  that  seemed 
to  sit  grimacing  upon  the  hour  of  eleven  every  time  that 
he  looked  at  his  watch,  Bourke  felt  the  exhilaration  of 
that  ride,  the  enchantment  of  uncertainty.  The  morn- 
ing air  was  cool ;  the  river  flashed  with  gold  ;  the  earth 
was  very  green.  They  seemed  to  cut  the  air  as  they 
raced  through  fields  and  towns,  dashed  and  whizzed 
round  curve  after  curve.  People  ran  after  them,  some 
shouting  with  terror,  thinking  it  was  a  runaway  engine. 

Father  Connor  had  bought  some  sandwiches  at  the 
station,  and  Bourke  ate  mechanically.  He  wondered  if 
he  should  ever  recognise  the  fine  flavour  of  food  again. 

The  priest  put  his  lips  to  Bourke's  ear  and  spoke  for 
the  first  time. 

"Where  do  you  expect  to  catch  the  train?" 


47 6    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

"At  Poughkeepsie.     It  waits  there  ten  minutes." 

"And  what  shall  you  do  if  you  don't  catch  it?  " 

"  Go  on  to  Sing  Sing,  and  do  the  best  I  can.  I  have 
made  one  fatal  mistake  :  I  should  have  telegraphed  to 
Sing  Sing.  But  I  was  mad,  I  think,  until  I  reached 
Albany,  and  there  it  is  no  wonder  I  forgot  it.  The 
regular  time  for  —  that  business  is  round  eleven  o'clock, 
about  a  quarter  past ;  but  if  the  warden  happens  to  be 
drunk  there  's  no  telling  what  he  will  take  it  into  his 
head  to  do.  But  I  dare  not  stop." 

Suddenly  they  shot  about  a  curve.  The  engineer 
shouted  "  There  !  There  !  "  A  dark  speck  was  just 
making  another  curve,  far  to  the  south. 

"  The  express  !  "  cried  the  engineer.  "  We  Ve  side- 
tracked everything  else.  We  '11  catch  her  now." 

An  hour  later  they  dashed  into  Poughkeepsie,  the 
express  only  two  minutes  ahead  of  them.  Amidst  a 
crowd  of  staring  people,  Bourke  and  the  priest,  be- 
grimed, dishevelled,  leaped  from  the  engine  and 
boarded  a  parlour  car  of  the  express.  Alone,  Bourke 
would  probably  have  been  arrested  as  a  madman,  con- 
trolled as  was  his  demeanour;  but  the  priest's  frock 
forbade  interference. 

The  governor  was  not  in  the  parlour  car,  nor  in  the 
next,  nor  in  the  next. 

Yes,  he  had  been  there,  a  porter  replied,  and  would 
be  there  again ;  but  he  had  left  the  train  as  soon  as  it 
had  stopped.  No,  he  did  not  know  in  what  direction 
he  had  gone ;  nor  did  any  one  else. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  wait.  Bourke  sent  a 
telegram  to  Sing  Sing,  but  it  relieved  his  anxiety  little : 
he  knew  the  languid  methods  of  the  company's  officials 
in  country  towns. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    477 

There  were  five  of  those  remaining  seven  minutes 
when  he  thought  he  was  going  mad.  An  immense 
crowd  had  gathered  by  this  time  about  the  station. 
Nobody  knew  exactly  what  was  the  matter,  and  nobody 
dared  ask  the  man  walking  rapidly  up  and  down  the 
platform,  watch  in  hand,  gripping  the  arm  of  a  priest ; 
but  hints  were  flying,  and  no  one  doubted  that  this  sud- 
den furious  incursion  of  a  flying  engine  and  the  extraor- 
dinary appearance  of  Bourke  had  to  do  with  the  famous 
prisoner  at  Sing  Sing. 

At  exactly  three  minutes  to  starting  time  the  gov- 
ernor came  sauntering  down  the  street,  a  tooth-pick  in 
his  mouth,  his  features  overspread  with  the  calm  and 
good-will  which  bespeak  a  recently  warmed  interior. 
Bourke  reached  him  almost  at  a  bound.  He  was  a 
master  of  words,  and  in  less  than  a  minute  he  had 
presented  the  governor  with  the  facts  in  the  case  and 
handed  him  the  affidavit. 

"  Good,"  said  the  governor.  "I  'm  glad  enough  to 
do  this.  It 's  you  that  will  understand,  Mr.  Bourke, 
that  I  would  have  been  violating  a  sacred  duty  if  I  'd 
slapped  public  opinion  in  the  face  before." 

He  wrote  rapidly  on  the  back  of  the  affidavit. 

"This  will  do  for  the  present,"  he  said.  "I'll  fix 
it  up  in  style  when  I  go  back.  You  're  a  great  man, 
Mr.  Bourke." 

But  Bourke  had  gone.  Whistles  were  sounding, 
train  men  were  yelling.  He  and  the  priest  barely  had 
time  to  jump  on  their  engine  when  they  were  ordered 
to  clear  the  track. 

Bourke  glanced  at  his  watch  as  they  sprang  out  of 
the  station.  The  time  was  twenty  minutes  past  ten. 
It  was  barely  possible  to  reach  Sing  Sing  in  three  quar- 


478     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

ters  of  an  hour.  Lead  was  in  his  veins.  His  head  felt 
light.  The  chances  for  his  last  and  paramount  success 
were  very  slim. 

But  the  great  engine  dashed  along  like  an  inspired 
thing,  and  seemed  to  throb  in  sympathy.  There  was  a 
note  of  triumphant  encouragement  in  its  sudden  pierc- 
ing shrieks.  It  tossed  a  cow  off  the  track  as  lightly  as 
the  poor  brute  had  lately  whisked  a  fly  from  its  hind- 
quarters. It  whistled  merrily  to  the  roaring  air.  It 
snorted  disdainfully  when  Bourke,  refusing  to  heed  its 
mighty  lullaby,  curved  his  hands  about  his  mouth  and 
shouted  to  the  engineer  :  — 

"For  God's  sake,  go  faster  !  " 


XXV 

THE  town  of  Sing  Sing  was  awake  at  daylight.  It  was 
the  most  exciting  and  important  day  of  its  history. 
The  women,  even  the  pitiful  ones,  arose  with  a  pleas- 
urable flutter  and  donned  their  Sunday  frocks.  The 
matrons  dressed  the  children  in  their  brightest  and  best, 
and  laid  the  gala  cover  on  the  baby  carriage.  The 
men  of  the  village  took  a  half-holiday  and  made  them- 
selves as  smart  as  their  women.  The  saloon  keepers 
stocked  their  shelves  and  spread  their  counters  with 
tempting  array  of  corned  beef,  cold  ham,  cheese,  crack- 
ers, pickles,  and  pretzels. 

By  ten  o'clock  a  hundred  teams  had  driven  into  the 
town,  and  were  hitched  to  every  post,  housed  in  every 
stable.  A  number  stood  along  that  part  of  the  road 
which  commanded  a  view  of  the  prison  towers. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    479 

The  women  sat  about  on  the  slope  opposite  the 
prison,  pushing  the  baby  carriages  absently  back  and 
forth,  or  gossiping  with  animation.  Other  women 
crowded  up  the  bluff,  settling  themselves  comfortably 
to  await,  with  what  patience  they  could  muster,  the 
elevation  of  the  black  flag. 

The  reporters  and  witnesses  of  the  execution  sat  on 
a  railing  near  the  main  entrance,  smoking  cigarettes 
and  discussing  probabilities.  Inside  and  out  the  atmos- 
phere of  intense  and  suppressed  excitement  was  trying 
to  even  the  stout  nerves  of  the  head-keeper.  The 
assistant  keepers,  in  bright  new  caps,  moved  about  with 
an  air  of  portentous  solemnity. 

Never  had  Sing  Sing  seen  a  more  beautiful  day. 
The  sky  was  a  dome  of  lapis-lazuli.  The  yellow  sun 
sparkled  down  on  the  imposing  mediaeval  pile  of  towers 
and  turrets,  on  the  handsome  grey  buildings  above  the 
green  slopes  near  by,  on  the  graveyard  with  its  few 
dishonoured  dead,  on  the  gayly  dressed  expectant 
people,  as  exhilaratingly  as  had  death  and  dishonour 
never  been.  The  river  and  the  wooded  banks  be- 
yond were  as  sweet  and  calm  as  if  the  great  build- 
ing with  the  men  in  the  watch  towers  were  some 
feudal  castle,  in  which,  perchance,  a  captured  princess 
pined. 

The  head-keeper  walked  once  or  twice  to  the  tele- 
graph table  in  a  corner  of  the  office,  and  asked  the  girl 
in  charge  if  any  message  had  come. 

"  It 's  the  wish  that 's  father  to  the  thought,"  he  said 
to  the  warden;  "but  I  can't  help  hoping  for  a  reprieve 
or  a  commutation  or  something.  Poor  thing,  I  feel 
awful  sorry  for  her." 

"Damn  her,"  growled  his  chief.     "She's  too  high- 


480    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

toned  for  me.  When  I  read  the  death  warrant  to  her 
this  morning  she  turned  her  back  on  me  square." 

"  She  's  awful  proud,  and  I  guess  she  has  a  hard  time 
keeping  up ;  but  it  ain't  no  time  for  resentment.  I 
must  say  I  did  think  Mr.  Bourke  'd  save  her,  and  I 
can't  help  thinking  he  will  yet." 

"  Time  's  getting  short,"  said  the  warden,  with  a  dry 
laugh.  "  It 's  10.40,  and  the  execution  takes  place  at 
1 1. 1 2  sharp." 

"  Could  n't  you  make  some  excuse  to  put  it  off  a  day 
or  so?  It  ain't  like  Mr.  Bourke." 

"Not  much.  Off  she  goes  at  11.12."  And  he  got 
up  heavily  and  shuffled  out. 

The  head-keeper  took  a  decanter  of  brandy  from  the 
sideboard  and  placed  it,  with  a  number  of  glasses,  on 
the  table.  Then  he  called  in  the  newspaper  men  and 
other  witnesses. 

He  wandered  about  restlessly  as  the  men  entered  and 
drank  in  silence.  He  carried  a  stick  of  malacca  topped 
with  silver.  One  or  two  of  the  newspaper  men  shud- 
dered as  it  caught  their  eye.  They  knew  its  hideous 
portent. 

"Guess  we'd  better  go,"  he  said,  after  one  more 
fruitless  trip  to  the  telegraph  table.  "  It  takes  time 
to  go  through  those  underground  passages." 

As  the  great  gates  were  about  to  close  behind  them 
he  turned  suddenly  and  called  a  guard. 

"  If  it  should  so  happen  that  Mr.  Bourke  should 
come,  or  telegraph,  or  that  anything  should  happen 
before — 11.16 — I  can  delay  it  that  long — just  you 
be  on  hand  to  make  a  bolt.  It  ain't  like  Mr.  Bourke 
to  sit  down  and  do  nothing.  I  feel  it  in  my  bones  that 
he  's  moving  heaven  and  earth  this  minute." 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times     481 


XXVI 

IT  was  five  minutes  after  eleven.  Patience  sat  on  the 
edge  of  her  bed,  her  hands  clenched,  her  face  grey. 
But  she  was  calm.  The  horror  and  sinking  which  had 
almost  mastered  her  as  the  warden  read  the  death 
warrant,  she  had  fought  down  and  under.  And  she  had 
drunk  a  quantity  of  black  coffee.  She  had  but  one 
thought,  one  desire  left,  —  to  die  bravely.  Even  Bourke 
was  forgotten,  and  hope  and  regret.  She  was  conscious 
of  but  one  passionate  wish,  not  to  quail,  not  for  a  second. 
Perhaps  there  was  a  slight  touch  of  the  dramatic  in- 
stinct, even  in  this  last  extremity,  for  she  imagined  the 
scene  and  her  attitude  again  and  again.  In  conse- 
quence, there  was  a  sense  of  unreality  in  it  all.  She 
felt  as  if  about  to  play  some  great  final  act ;  she  could 
not  realise  that  the  climax  meant  her  own  annihilation. 
Physically  she  was  very  tired,  and  should  have  liked  to 
lie  down  for  hours,  although  the  coffee  had  routed 
sleep.  Once  she  half  extended  herself  on  the  bed, 
then  sat  erect,  her  mouth  contracting  spasmodically. 

Suddenly  she  heard  the  noise  of  many  feet  shuffling 
on  a  bare  floor.  She  knew  that  it  came  from  the 
execution  room.  She  shuddered  and  bit  her  lips. 
Now  and  again,  through  the  high  windows,  came  the 
shrill  note  of  a  woman's  voice,  or  a  baby's  soft  light 
laugh. 

A  moment  later  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  quivering  in 
every  nerve,  her  hands  clenched  in  a  final  and  success- 
ful attempt  at  absolute  self-mastery.  On  the  door  sep- 


482    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

arating  the  Death  House  from  the  main  building, 
resounded  three  loud  raps,  slow  and  deliberate.  They 
reverberated  in  the  ears  of  the  condemned  like  the 
blast  of  the  last  trumpet. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  head-keeper  entered, 
walking  slowly,  and  stopping  once  to  hold  whispered 
converse  with  the  death  watch.  Patience  controlled 
an  impulse  to  call  to  him  to  hurry  and  have  it  over. 

He  came  forward  at  last,  tapping  his  malacca  stick 
on  the  floor,  unlocked  the  door  of  her  cell,  and  offered 
her  his  arm.  He  bent  to  her  ear  as  if  to  whisper  some- 
thing, then  evidently  thought  better  of  it,  and  led  her 
slowly  to  the  passage  facing  the  execution  room. 
Again  she  wanted  to  ask  him  to  hurry,  but  dared  not 
speak.  The  death  watch  turned  away  his  head.  The 
lace  of  her  low  shoe  untied,  and  she  stooped  mechani- 
cally and  fastened  it. 

The  head-keeper  asked  her  if  she  would  like  some 
brandy,  —  he  would  send  and  get  it  for  her.  She 
shook  her  head  emphatically.  The  exaltation  of  hero- 
ism was  beginning  to  possess  her,  and  she  would  give 
no  newspaper  the  chance  to  say  that  she  owed  her 
fortitude  to  alcohol. 

They  walked  down  the  narrow  vaulted  way  through 
which  so  many  had  gone  to  their  last  hideous  moments. 
The  head-keeper  fumbled  at  the  lock.  The  door 
swung  open.  For  a  moment  Patience  closed  her  eyes  j 
the  big  room  of  yellow  wood  was  a  blaze  of  sunlight. 
Then  she  opened  them  and  glanced  curiously  about 
her. 

The  execution  room  was  large  and  high  and  square 
and  cheerful.  On  the  left,  many  feet  above  the  floor, 
was  a  row  of  windows.  At  the  far  end  a  number  of 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    483 

men  that  had  been  sitting  on  stools  stood  up  hurriedly 
as  the  prisoner  entered,  and  doffed  their  hats.  They 
were  the  newspaper  men.  She  recognised  most  of 
them,  and  bent  her  head.  At  the  opposite  end  near 
the  door  leading  to  the  Death  House  was  a  chair. 
Patience  regarded  it  steadily  in  spite  of  its  brilliancy. 
It  was  a  solid  chair  of  light  coloured  oak,  like  the  room, 
and  supported  on  three  legs.  Two  were  at  the  back ; 
in  front  was  one  of  curious  construction,  almost  a  foot 
in  breadth.  This  leg  was  divided  in  two  at  the  extrem- 
ity. Half  way  up  there  was  a  cross  piece  which  spread 
the  full  width  of  the  chair.  To  this  was  fastened  the 
straps  to  hold  the  ankles  of  the  condemned.  The 
chair  stood  on  a  rubber  mat  to  ensure  perfect  insula- 
tion. It  was  studded  with  small  electric  lamps,  daz- 
zling, white-hot. 

Behind  the  chair  was  a  square  cupboard  in  which 
stood  the  unknown,  who,  at  a  given  signal,  would  turn 
on  the  current. 

Two  prison  guards  stood  by  the  chair,  one  behind  it 
and  one  on  the  right.  The  State  electrician,  two  sur- 
geons, and  a  man  in  light  blue  clothes  stood  near. 

Patience  turned  her  eyes  to  the  reporters.  The 
young  men  were  very  pale.  They  regarded  her  with 
deep  sympathy,  and  perhaps  a  bitter  resentment  at  the 
impotence  of  their  manhood.  One  looked  as  if  he 
should  faint,  and  turning  his  back  suddenly  raised  some- 
thing to  his  lips.  Even  the  "  Eye  "  man  still  held  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  and  had  not  resumed  his  seat.  Only  one 
watched  her  with  eager  wolfish  curiosity.  He  was  the 
youngest  of  them  all,  and  it  was  his  first  great  story. 

Patience  wondered  if  she  looked  ugly  after  her  long 
confinement,  and  possibly  ridiculous,  as  most  women 


484    Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

look  when  they  have  dressed  without  a  mirror.  But 
there  was  no  curve  of  amusement  on  the  young  men's 
faces,  and  they  were  shuffling  their  feet  uneasily.  Her 
hair  hung  in  a  long  braid.  She  looked  very  young. 

She  dropped  the  head-keeper's  arm  and  walked 
deliberately  to  the  chair ;  but  he  caught  her  hand  and 
held  her  back. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  he  said,  with  affected  gruffness. 
He  went  to  the  chair  and  examined  it  in  detail.  He 
asked  a  number  of  questions,  which  were  answered  by 
the  electrician  with  haughty  surprise.  In  a  moment  the 
reporters  were  staring,  and  like  a  lightning  flash  one  brain 
informed  another  that  "  something  was  in  the  wind." 

When  the  head-keeper  had  lingered  about  the  chair 
as  long  as  he  dared  he  returned  to  Patience,  who  was 
standing  rigidly  where  he  had  left  her,  and  drawing  a 
short  breath  said,  — 

"  If  you  have  any  last  words,  ma'am,  you  are  at 
liberty  to  speak." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  replied  Patience,  wonder- 
ing if  her  mouth  or  brain  were  speaking. 

"  Yes,  yes,  speak,"  exclaimed  several  of  the  report- 
ers. They  had  out  their  pads  in  an  instant ;  but,  for 
once,  it  was  not  the  news  instinct  that  was  alert.  The 
most  quick-witted  men  in  the  world,  they  realised  that 
the  head-keeper  was  endeavouring  to  gain  time.  Their 
stiff  felt  hats  dropped  to  the  floor  and  bounced  about. 
Their  hands  shook  a  little.  For  perhaps  the  first  time 
in  their  history  they  were  more  men  than  journalists. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  speak,"  said  Patience,  and  again 
she  walked  toward  the  chair.  The  newspaper  men 
sprang  forward  with  an  uncontrollable  movement,  but 
the  guards  waved  them  back. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    485 

"  Be  careful,  young  men,"  said  the  head-keeper  with 
pompous  severity.  "  Any  more  of  that,  and  you  go  out." 
Taking  advantage  of  the  momentary  scraping  of  boots, 
he  whispered  in  Patience's  ear,  "  For  God's  sake  speak 
—  and  a  good  long  one.  You  must  have  something  to 
say ;  and  it 's  your  last  chance  on  earth." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  she  replied,  her  brain  closed 
to  all  impressions  but  one.  "  Can't  you  see  that  I  need 
all  my  strength?  If  you  have  any  mercy  in  you  put 
me  in  that  chair  and  have  done  with  it." 

"  Oh,  you  are  not  the  kind  to  break  down  —  my 
God !  " 

The  silence  of  the  prison,  the  hush  without  the  walls, 
was  pierced  by  a  single  shriek,  a  shriek  which  seemed 
shot  from  earth  to  heaven,  a  mighty  shriek  of  furious 
warning. 

Every  man  in  the  room  jumped.  The  newspaper 
men  drew  their  breath  with  a  hard  sound.  Only 
Patience  gave  no  heed. 

"  It 's  an  engine,"  stuttered  the  head -keeper,  "  and 
there  's  no  train  due  at  this  hour  —  " 

The  outer  door  was  flung  violently  open.  The  war- 
den stamped  heavily  into  the  room.  His  face  was 
purple. 

"  Why  in  hell  has  n't  this  execution  taken  place  ?  " 
he  roared.  "  Get  to  work  !  " 

The  head-keeper's  face  turned  very  white.  His  hand 
shook  a  little.  The  men  stared  at  him  with  jumping 
nerves.  Patience  and  the  warden  were  the  only  persons 
in  the  room  unaffected  by  the  inexplicable  excitement 
which  had  taken  possession  of  the  atmosphere. 

"  Get  to  work,"  repeated  the  warden. 

Patience  walked  to  the  chair  and  seated  herself,  ex- 


486     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

tending  her  arms  in  position.  Once  more  her  brain 
relaxed  its  grasp  on  every  thought  but  the  determination 
not  to  scream  nor  quiver.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  set 
her  teeth. 

The  guards  began  to  fasten  the  straps,  but  slowly, 
under  the  significant  eyes  of  the  head-keeper.  The 
warden  stamped  up  and  down.  The  electrician  came 
forward.  The  surgeon  went  into  an  adjoining  room 
and  cast  his  eyes  over  his  instruments,  laid  out  on  a 
long  table. 

The  brain  works  eccentrically  in  such  moments. 
Patience's  suddenly  flung  upon  her  consciousness  a 
picture  of  Carmel  tower.  She  speculated  upon  the 
fate  of  her  owl.  She  recalled  that  the  Mission  had 
been  restored,  and  wondered  if  Solomon,  that  proud 
and  elderly  hermit,  had  turned  his  haughty  back  upon 
civilisation  to  dwell  alone  in  the  black  arbours  of  the 
remote  pine  tops  of  the  forest.  She  saw  the  spray  toss 
itself  into  scattering  wraiths,  as  when  she  had  knelt 
there  —  a  thousand  years  ago  —  a  little  lonely  girl  in 
copper-toed  boots,  dreaming  dreams  that  were  pricked 
with  no  premonition  of  life's  tragic  horrors. 

She  frowned  suddenly,  recalling  her  long-lived  deter- 
mination to  take  life  as  a  spectacular  drama.  Life  had 
gotten  the  best  of  her !  Assuredly  there  was  nothing 
impersonal  about  this  ignominious  and  possibly  excru- 
ciating death.  The  thought  banished  Carmel  tower. 
Her  mind  was  a  sudden  blaze  of  light  —  white  light  she 
thought  with  a  stifled  shrink  —  in  which  every  detail  of 
the  room  was  sharply  accentuated.  She  opened  her 
eyes,  but  only  a  trifle,  lest  these  men  see  the  horror  in 
them.  Her  blood  was  curdling,  but  she  knew  that  she 
was  making  no  sign. 


Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times    487 

Her  sensitised  mind  received  the  immediate  impres- 
sion that  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  was  vibrating  with 
excitement.  She  saw  the  head-keeper's  neck  crane,  his 
furtive  glance  at  the  outer  door.  He  expected  some 
one.  Bourke ! 

She  set  her  teeth.  She  had  believed  up  to  last  night 
that  he  would  save  her.  Why  had  she  doubted  him  for 
an  instant  ?  She  understood  now  the  diplomacy  of  the 
head-keeper.  Why  had  she  not  spoken  when  he  had 
implored  her? 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  men  fastening  the  straps 
were  racing  each  other.  She  wanted  to  whisper  to 
them  to  lag,  but  pride  stayed  her  tongue. 

The  warden  was  striding  about  and  swearing.  The 
electricians  and  surgeons  were  whispering  in  a  group. 

She  looked  at  the  newspaper  men.  She  met  their 
gaze  of  excited  sympathy,  understood  at  last  the  spirit 
that  animated  them,  and  bowed  her  head.  She  dared 
not  speak. 

But  in  a  moment  indignation  routed  gratitude.  Why 
did  they  not  rescue  her,  these  young  vigorous  men  ! 
They  knew  her  to  be  innocent.  They  outmatched  in 
number  the  guards.  Where  was  their  manhood? 
What  had  become  of  all  the  old  traditions  ?  Then  her 
anger  left  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come.  They  were  not 
knights  with  battle  axes,  but  the  most  exaggerated 
product  of  modern  civilisation.  It  was  almost  a  miracle 
that  they  passionately  wished  to  save  her. 

Her  head  was  drawn  gently  back,  her  eyes  covered. 
Something  leapt  and  fought  within  her.  Horror  tore  at 
her  vitals,  snarling  like  a  wolf-hound.  But  once  more 
her  will  rose  supreme.  Then,  as  she  realised  that  her 
last  moment  had  come,  she  became  possessed  by  one 


488     Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Times 

mighty  desire,  to  compel  her  imagination  to  give  her 
the  phantasm,  the  voice,  the  touch  of  her  lover. 

The  wrench  with  which  she  accomplished  her  object 
was  so  violent,  the  mental  concentration  so  overmaster- 
ing, that  all  other  consciousness  was  extinguished. 

Suddenly  her  ears  were  pierced  by  a  din  which 
made  her  muscles  leap  against  the  straps.  Was  she  in 
hell,  and  was  this  her  greeting?  She  felt  a  second's 
thankfulness  that  death  had  been  painless. 

Then,  out  of  the  babel  of  sound  she  distinguished 
words  which  made  her  sit  erect  and  open  her  eyes,  her 
pulses  bound,  her  blood  leap,  hot  and  stinging,  her 
whole  being  rebound  with  gladness  of  life. 

The  cap  had  been  removed,  the  men  were  unbuckling 
the  straps.  The  head-keeper  had  flung  his  cap  on  the 
floor  and  run  his  hands  through  his  hair  until  it  stood 
up  straight.  Round  her  chair  the  newspaper  men 
were  pressing,  shouting  and  cheering,  trying  to  get  at 
her  hand  to  shake  it. 

She  smiled  and  held  out  her  hand,  but  dared  not 
speak  to  them.  Pride  still  lived,  and  she  was  afraid 
that  she  should  cry. 

Then  she  forgot  them.  A  sudden  parting  in  the 
ranks  showed  her  the  open  door.  At  the  same  moment 
the  men  stopped  shouting.  Bourke  had  entered.  He 
had  followed  the  guard  mechanically,  neither  hoping 
nor  fearing  until  the  far-reaching  cheers  sent  the  blood 
springing  through  his  veins  once  more. 

He  was  neither  clean  nor  picturesque,  but  Patience 
saw  only  his  eyes.  He  walked  forward  rapidly,  and 
lifting  her  in  his  arms  carried  her  from  the  room. 

THE   END. 


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